The Wistful Throne
The ink is dry. It is black. It is cold. You look at your hands. They are stained. Deep in the creases. Under the nails. It will not wash out. You know this. You have tried. The water only spreads it. Makes it darker. More permanent. The house holds its breath. The beams creak. Old wood. Old stone. The hearth is cold. The fire died hours ago. You did not tend it. You did not care. You are...
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