The Wistful Silence
The water stain on the ledger page looked less like an accident and more like a bruise, a dark, spreading vein of mildew that obscured the entry for the year 1342. I had been holding the book for twenty minutes, my fingers trembling not from the cold of the vault but from the sudden, sickening realization that the provenance of the St. Agnes Chalice, the artifact that had secured my tenure and...
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