The Wistful Letter
The ink is wet. It smells of iron and rain. You sit at the edge of the oak desk, the wood slick with condensation from the cellar damp. The candle flickers, casting long, shaking shadows against the stone walls of the Scriptorium. You are not supposed to be here. You are supposed to be in your cell, praying for the forgiveness of sins you do not yet understand. But you are a scholar. You know...
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