The Pale Fracture
The ink is already wet on the page of your life, a dark smear that refuses to dry, bleeding into the fibers of the parchment you have held for so long. You are Thomas Bradshaw, and you are tired. The weight of the quill in your hand feels less like a tool of record and more like a bone, a pale fracture in the knuckles of your authority. In the Hall of Records, the air is thick with the smell of...
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