The Pale Dance
The morning light cuts through the high, barred windows of the basement, illuminating dust motes that hang suspended in the cold air like frozen static. You count the hours until the end of the month, twelve days remaining, each one a brick in the wall of your ambition. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four, a junior archivist, and you want the title of Head Archivist more than you want to breathe,...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews