The Wistful Show
The ink was dry, but the debt remained. I sat in the windowless room, the air thick with the smell of damp wool and old paper. My hands trembled. Not from the cold, though the stone floor bit through my boots. I trembled because I had made a mistake. A small one, at first. A smudge on the ledger. A wrong digit in the calculation of the grain shipments. But in the accounting of the soul, small...
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