The Pale Garden
The ink on the page was wet, a glossy smear that caught the fluorescent hum of the archive room and reflected it back as a dark, oily eye. You ran your thumb over the name, Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, senior archivist, and felt the cold dampness seep into the skin, a violation that made the hair on your arms stand up in a rigid, defensive bristle. The ledger lay open on the steel table,...
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