The Faded Chronicle
The ink bled. Elias Thorne watched the black stain spread across the parchment, forming the distinct, hollow eyes of a face he had spent twenty years refusing to see. He was fifty-two, his hands cramped from decades of handling brittle paper, and the air in the Blackwood vault tasted of damp wool and old dust. The Mirror Coat hung on its stand in the corner, a heavy thing of velvet that seemed...
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