The Wistful Letter
The ink is still wet. You stare at the parchment. The letters bleed. They do not dry. You hold your breath. The candle gutters. The shadow of your hand trembles on the desk. You are the Archivist. This is your title. Your burden. The Great Hall of the Inquisitor’s Order is cold. Stone bites through your robes. You sit in the corner. The dust motes dance in the beam of light. They are silent....
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