The Wistful Atlas
The ink is still wet on the vellum, a dark vein pulsing against the pale skin of the parchment. You press your quill into the well, the feather trembling slightly in your hand, and you watch the black liquid pool. It is not merely ink. It is a seal. A mark of ownership. For forty years, you have kept the ledgers of the Holloway estate, recording the yield of the barley, the death of the sheep,...
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