The Distant Journey
"I told you the ink will not stay down, Amelie, but you insisted on working through the gale." Julien’s voice was wet, his coat dripping onto the flagstones of the municipal archive, a place that smelled of damp wool and the rotting paper of debts owed to the dead. I did not look up from the ledger; my hands were stained black to the wrist, the ink bleeding upward from the page into the air,...
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