The Wistful Cipher
The document lay on the desk, a single sheet of parchment so thin it seemed less like paper and more like a membrane stretched over a drum. It was a bill, though it bore no currency, only a list of deductions: three years of vitality, two winters of endurance, one season of memory. I signed it with a hand that shook, the quill scratching a sound like a dry twig snapping underfoot. The ink was...
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