The Golden Song
The ink was already drying on the vellum when I realized that my hands had stopped shaking, a stillness that felt less like peace and more like the silence of a held breath in a tomb. I am a binder, a keeper of words, and for three generations my family has pressed the leather and stitched the spine of the world’s secrets into a shape that could be held, but today, in the dusty, windowless...
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