The Faded Ruin
The ink was not merely black but a living, hungry thing, a viscous dark that seemed to pull the light from the air as it seeped into the fibers of the parchment, spreading like a bruise under skin, and I watched it with the detached curiosity of a man observing his own slow dissolution, for in this place, where the walls were not built of stone but of compressed centuries of silence and the air...
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