The Pale Tower
The card catalog drawer is sticking again, the metal sliding with a gritty, abrasive resistance that grinds against your knuckles as you force it open, the smell of old paper and dust rising up to mix with the stale air of the basement. You are Elias, forty-two years old, and you are trying to finish the municipal inventory before your mother’s funeral on Sunday, a task that feels less like...
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