The Faded Guest
The parchment lay flat on the oak table, its edges yellowed and brittle as dried leaves. You traced the final line of the *Liber Mortis* with a calloused finger, the ink still wet from your own hand. It was the winter solstice, and the deadline for your permanent tenure was three days hence. You needed this book finished. You needed it more than you needed air. The scriptorium was silent, save...
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