The Wistful Letter
The ink is dry, but the ghost of it still bleeds into the parchment, a dark vein pulsing beneath your skin as you hold the letter close to the chest that beats with a rhythm only you can hear, a frantic, obsessive drumming that threatens to shatter the ribs that cage it. You stand in the vast, suffocating silence of the scriptorium, where the air is thick with the smell of lampblack and dried...
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