The Pale Dance
What is the price of a name, if it is written in ink that has not yet dried? I asked this of the light as it fell through the high, narrow windows of the parish registry office, a slant of gray that cut across the floorboards like a blade. The air in the room was heavy with old paper and the metallic tang of the telegraph wires that ran along the ceiling, humming with a low, constant register...
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