The cold morning light poured through the vaulted windows of the municipal archive, illuminating rows of vellum registers spread across the long tables.
Sava pointed a trembling finger toward the open pages of the residential registry, his breath catching in his throat.
Where neat columns of names and birth dates once stood, wide strips of clean parchment stared back like hollow sockets.
"The ink did not fade from age or dampness," the clerk whispered, clutching his brass stylus against his chest.
"I inspected the paper fibers under magnifying glass only moments before the bells stopped ringing," Lucan reported, his brows furrowed in deep concentration.
"The carbon pigment lifted cleanly off the surface without leaving a single scratch or chemical stain!"
"My eldest boy taught me how to measure flour by the span of his palm," Tessa wept, her apron twisted between tight knuckles.
