The Wistful Silence
The ink on the parchment was still wet, a dark, viscous smear that seemed to breathe against the heavy, cream-colored paper, and Margaret Holloway stared at it not with the eye of a scholar but with the raw, animal panic of a creature trapped in a cage whose bars were made of syntax and law, knowing that the words she had written were not merely descriptions but chains, and that the cage was...
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