The Wistful Witness
The ink was black. The paper was white. I was neither. I stood in the corner. The clock ticked. It was loud. It was slow. I am a thing of paper. I have no skin. I have no breath. I am a scribe. I am a ghost in the archive. I hold the quill. I do not put it down. My name is Elara. Or so they call me. It does not matter. Names are for the flesh. I am the shadow of the word. The room is cold....
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