The Wistful Skyline
Clara, stop. I did not hear him, or perhaps I did and chose to ignore the summons because the vellum under my fingers felt warm, like a living cheek, and I was so close to finishing the scan. I am thirty-four years old, and I have spent the last decade in the basement of the Municipal Archive, my life measured in cubic feet of paper and the slow, grinding erosion of my knuckles. The tenure...
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