The Wistful Skyline
The ink was bleeding again, the black lines of the ledger spreading into a shape that looked too much like my own face, and I could feel the cold biting into the knuckles of my hands as I tried to steady the pen. I am Aisha Salem, thirty-two years old, a junior archivist in the restricted wing of the Imperial Library, and I have not felt the warmth of a proper fire in six weeks. The heating...
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