The Distant Journey

bir ses eklendi Literature

2026-08-20 00:39:07 -

The fire started at dawn. It consumed the scriptorium before the sun had fully cleared the eastern pines. I watched from the gallery, my hands cold, my heart a drum of lead. The ink smelled of burning oak and betrayal. I am Thomas. I am a clerk. I am not a hero. I am the hand that holds the quill, not the head that decides the word. For ten years I have served the Abbot. I have copied psalms. I...

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