The Distant Legend
The ink is wet. It runs down the edge of the parchment, a black tear that does not dry. You press your pen harder. The nib scratches against the rough paper. You are in the basement. The air smells of damp stone and old paper. Above you, the city of Ashford grinds. The gears of the mill turn. The whistles blow. The system breathes. You write the name. Margaret Holloway. You write the date. You...
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