The Distant Joke

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2026-08-18 03:37:48 -

The Distant Joke

The ink on the parchment did not dry. It wept. Elara sat in the center of the circular room, the air thick with the scent of ozone and old dust, and watched the black liquid bleed through the fiber of the page, spreading like a bruise across the white expanse. The scribe’s hand, her own, was steady, but the words refused to hold their shape. They were not letters, not anymore. They were wounds....

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