The Faded Portrait

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2026-08-20 19:21:25 -

The ink was dry. That was the problem. It was dry and it was mine. I held the small, leather-bound book in my left hand, my thumb resting on the cover where the gold leaf had worn away to a dull, brown smudge. Inside, the pages were filled with my script. Not words, not quite. Marks. Scratches that looked like the tracks of insects crawling across a dead leaf. I had made them for three years....

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