The Wistful Letter
The candle gutters. You hold the glass vial. It is cold. The wax drips onto your knuckle. It burns. You do not flinch. You are in the chapel. Or what remains of it. The roof is gone. The stars look down. They are indifferent. You are a seeker. A finder. You have spent three years in the mud and the dark. You have spent three years in the shadows of the old world. You are looking for the Seal....
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