The Faded Root
The ink on your skin has begun to flake, not like paint peeling from a rotting fence post, but like the dead skin of a winter wound finally ready to surrender to the spring air, revealing the pale, bruised flesh beneath where the words used to be etched so deeply that you could feel the ghost of the letters pulsing against your pulse, a rhythmic throb that matched the heavy, iron-clad heartbeat...
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