The Wistful Letter

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2026-08-18 17:18:19 -

The ink was wet. It bled into the heavy parchment, a black bruise forming in the shape of my own name. I stared at it. The scriptorium was cold. The air tasted of iron and old dust. I was an exile here, a man without a past, living in the shadows of the abbey’s high walls. My hands trembled. Not from fear. From the weight of the paper. I had come for refuge. Or so I told myself. In truth, I had...

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