The Golden Crossing
The light in the St. Jude’s Municipal Records Office is a pale, yellowed thing, the color of old tea, and it falls in distinct bands across the linoleum floor where the water damage has left its permanent, warped map. You count the hours by the way the dust motes suspend themselves in these bands, drifting with the slow, indifferent gravity of the building’s decay. It is a quiet life, or it...
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