The Wistful Witness
The dust in the archive room does not settle, it hangs, a thick, yellow suspension that coats the lungs and the eyes and the very soul of the man who breathes it, and you are that man, Thomas Bradshaw, standing before the iron-banded chests of the Guild of St. Jude in the year of our Lord 1342, holding in your trembling, ink-stained fingers a single, brittle scrap of parchment that has been...
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