The Wistful Mountain
The bell did not ring. It was not the hour for the toll, nor was it the hour for the curfew, yet the silence in the scriptorium was so profound that it felt like a physical weight pressing against the eardrums. Brother Thomas stood before the lectern, his quill hovering above the vellum, the ink in the pot black and still as a pool of night. He did not write. He watched the candle flame tremble...
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