The Wistful Witness

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2026-08-20 12:13:04 -

The ink was black. Not the soft, forgiving black of modern ballpoint, but a dense, viscous darkness that smelled of iron and old blood. I sat at the oak desk in the Scriptorium of Saint Jude, the air thick with the dust of centuries. My name was Arthur Penhaligon. I was the Keeper of the Word. For forty years, I had copied the Litany of Saint Jude. Every night. Every day. The task was endless....

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