The Wistful Witness
The ledger lies open before me, its pages stiff with the damp that has seeped through the shop’s cracked shutters, and I trace the line where the ink has begun to bleed, a dark vein spreading across the parchment like the sickness itself. I am Thomas, forty years of age, and for the last three decades I have served the walled city of Bristol as an apothecary, a role I held with the obsessive...
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