The Golden Crossing
The ink on page forty-two of NineElm Crossing was moving. Mei Wu watched the black letters swim across the parchment, a slow, viscous crawl that defied the stillness of the gaslit room. Her fingers were stained with the same black, gritty residue that clung to the skin of the archivist’s gloves, a texture like wet ash that she could not wash away. She had been cataloging the Golden Thread...
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