The Wistful Ashes
The ink is dry. You know this because you can see the faint, dark stain on the tip of your quill. It is a small mark, a black tear in the parchment, but it feels like a wound that will not heal. You are in the scriptorium, the air thick with the smell of oak gall and old dust. Outside, the rain hammers against the stone windows. Inside, you sit alone. The candles are burning low. Their flames...
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