The Faded Root
You are sitting in the back of the shop, the one that smells of wet wool and old paper, and you are holding a piece of chalk that is not quite chalk, it is a fragment of something darker, something that bleeds a faint, bruised purple into your palm, and you are waiting for the door to open, for the customer who is supposed to come, the one who owes you a debt that is not money but time, a debt...
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