The Distant Affair
In the dream, the ink did not dry. It pooled on the parchment like a dark, living stain, spreading its tendrils across the page with a slow, deliberate hunger, swallowing the margins and the careful, geometric precision of the script. Aldous Vane woke with the taste of iron and old paper in his mouth, the phantom weight of a quill still resting in his calloused hand. He lay for a moment in the...
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