The Pale Shadows
The ink in the well was not black, as one might expect from a place of such somber duty, but a deep, bruised violet that seemed to hold the weight of centuries in its viscosity, and I watched it ripple as the stone dropped, a soundless exhalation that vibrated in the marrow of my bones, and I thought of how we are all just vessels waiting to be filled with something we did not ask for,...
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