The Wistful Grid
The ink is still wet on the parchment, a dark vein pulsing against the vellum, and you are walking the long, cold corridor of the Abbey of St. Jude, your boots striking the flagstones with a rhythm that feels less like a step and more like a verdict being delivered, over and over, by a judge who has already forgotten the name of the accused. You carry the Ledger of Sins in a leather satchel...
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