The Pale Meridian
"The ink is not drying, Mr. Thorne. It is simply resting." I looked up from the ledger, the smell of wet paper and stale tobacco hanging thick in the air of the Department of Vital Statistics, a scent that had settled into the very fibers of my wool coat over the twelve years I had worked these floors. It was midnight, or close enough to it that the fluorescent lights overhead hummed with a...
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