The Faded Frequency
The ink has dried into a rust-colored scar across the parchment, a stain that looks less like writing and more like the dried blood of a small, wounded bird, yet I find myself staring at it with a reverence that borders on the religious, for it is the only thing I have left that remembers the shape of us, and I am telling you this, my dear brother, in the silence of a room where the dust motes...
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