The Wistful Witness
The bell tolled for vespers, a low, bronze groan that vibrated in the floorboards of the scriptorium. Elara did not look up from the parchment; her quill scratched a steady, rhythmic line across the vellum, the sound dry and sharp against the silence of the room. She was thirty-two, a widow of four years, and the only scribe in Ashworth who could read the old Latin ledger without stumbling. The...
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