The Pale Letter
"Sign here, and here, and do not sign the margin." The pen scratched against the cheap paper. I held the brass compass in my left hand, its weight a dull ache against my palm. It was cold, though the room was stiflingly hot. The air smelled of dust and old varnish, a dry, choking scent that settled in the back of the throat. I am Giuseppa Rinaldi. I have worked at the Municipal Registry for...
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