The Wistful Crossroads
The frost did not merely settle upon the windowpanes of the scriptorium; it invaded them. It crystallized into fractal geometries that mimicked the marginalia of the very texts Brother Aldous was copying, turning the cold into a language of ice and silence. He was a man of letters, of precise ink strokes and the heavy, vellum-scented air of the library, but for three days, the frost had been...
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