The Wistful Grid
The ink had barely dried on the final entry of the journal, a smudge of black carbon bleeding into the coarse, fibrous paper of the ledger that Margot had kept since the summer her world began to fracture, when the wind shifted and brought with it the scent of wet stone and old, forgotten rain, a smell that seemed to rise from the very bones of the earth beneath the crumbling walls of the keep...
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