The Faded Root
The ink on the page was not dry, though I had applied it three days prior, and it moved with the slow, deliberate patience of a root seeking water in the dark earth. I sat alone in the scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude, the year being 1342, the air thick with the scent of oak gall and iron sulfate, my quill hovering over the margin of the new Gospel manuscript where the heretical symbol lay...
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