The Faded Root
The ink had dried on the manuscript, a viscous, obsidian stain that seemed to breathe against the cold, white expanse of the paper, much like the shadow of a moth pinned to the velvet lining of a forgotten hatbox, a testament to a flight that had ended in silence and static. Arthur Penhaligon sat in the center of his study, a room that had long since ceased to be a mere repository of books and...
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