The Wistful Crossroads
You are the ink. You are the stain. You do not have a name that is not a title. You are the Archivist of the Hollow Court. The air smells of dust and old paper. It smells of decay. It smells of time. You sit at the desk. The desk is heavy. The wood is dark. It absorbs the light. The room is vast. The shelves stretch up. They vanish into the dark. The dark is thick. The dark is alive. You hold...
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