The Pale Letter
The ink is dry. It is black. It is deep. You press the quill. You feel the scratch. It bites the skin. The paper is pale. It is thin. It is cold. You write your name. You write it slow. You watch the letters form. They are sharp. They are clean. They are yours. You are the scribe. You are the one who speaks for the dead. The village knows this. They do not like it. They look away. They cross...
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