The Distant Whispers

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2026-08-19 17:07:02 -

The ink was dry before the candle died. It was always dry before the candle died. Margaret Holloway pressed her thumb against the parchment, feeling the slight tack of the dried pigment. It did not smudge. It never did. The letters were sharp, black, and final. They were her name. Or rather, they were the name she had given herself, the name that defined the shape of her soul in the eyes of the...

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