The Wistful Silence

bir ses eklendi Literature

2026-08-18 22:01:16 -

The ink was dry. It had been dry for three days. The parchment felt brittle beneath my fingertips, a dead leaf pressed in a book. I held it up to the window. The light was thin. It was the light of a dying winter. Outside, the snow lay deep. It muffled the sound of the world. Inside, the silence was heavy. It pressed against my ears. I was tired. My bones ached. I looked at the document. It was...

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