The Distant Legend
You dream of the ink. It is not black, nor is it blue, though it looks like both when the light hits the paper at the wrong angle. It is the color of a bruise that has gone old, a deep, mottled purple that seems to breathe against the grain of the wood. You are sitting at the table in the back of the library, the one with the cracked varnish that your grandfather used to call the "map of our...
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