The Distant Whispers
The nib of the quill dragged across the vellum, a sound like a fingernail scraping bone, and I did not look up. My fingers were cramped, the joints swollen from the cold that seeped through the attic floorboards of Oakhaven, but the hand that held the pen was steady. It had to be. Below, in the room where the air smelled of boiled turnips and rotting wool, Elara was coughing, a wet, rattling...
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