The Faded Chronicle
The ink on the ledger was still wet, a glossy black tear in the parchment that seemed to bleed into the grain of the wood, and young Thomas stood before the High Archivist, his hands trembling not from fear, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that had fallen over the Hall of Records. It was a silence so profound it had texture, thick as wet wool, pressing against his eardrums...
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