The Wistful Letter
The fog does not roll in so much as it seeps into the marrow of the world, a damp, grey exhalation that swallows the jagged teeth of the cliffside and reduces the ancient abbey to a whisper of stone. You are alone in the scriptorium, the air thick with the scent of rotting parchment and the metallic tang of the ink you have been mixing, a mixture of iron gall and the crushed petals of...
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