The Wistful Petal
The ink on the ledger is still wet when you look down, a dark, viscous bloom that has seeped into the grain of the oak, mirroring the bruise that has formed across your knuckles from years of gripping the quill too tightly. You are in the scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude, a place where the air tastes of dried lavender and old dust, and the silence is so thick it feels like a physical weight...
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