The Faded Road
The dampness in the scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude did not merely settle into the wood of the desks or the vellum of the manuscripts; it permeated the very marrow of Elara’s bones, a cold, wet weight that mirrored the stagnation of her own life, for she was thirty-two years old and had not seen the sun in a week, her fingers stained permanently with the iron-gall ink that was the only...
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