The Pale Shadows
The ink on my hands never quite washed off, a permanent stain that mapped the topography of my days in the great library of St. Aldhelm’s, a cathedral of silence and dust in the heart of the old city. I was a scholar of the marginalia, a man who lived in the notes scribbled by forgotten hands in the corners of ancient texts, and it was there, in the damp cellar where the air tasted of rot and...
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