The Pale Path
The ink had long since bled into the grain of the parchment, turning the once-sharp script into a bruised and indistinct blur, a testament to the slow, inevitable erosion of meaning by time and the dampness of the cellar where it lay, and yet I held it with the trembling reverence of a man clutching a lifeboat in a storm, my fingers tracing the worn grooves of the letters that had once...
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