The Wistful Show
The fire took the roof first. It ate the shingles like dry kindling, and the smoke came down through the beams in thick, gray curtains. You stood in the courtyard, the air tasting of ash and old wood. Around you, the other scribes huddled, their faces pale with a fear that was not for the building, but for the ink. For the words. You did not run. You stood by the heavy oak door of the...
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