The Faded Portrait
The ink in the pot had dried to a crust of black glass, a hard, brittle skin that cracked under the tip of my quill with a sound like a small bone snapping. I counted the drops I forced out, one, two, three, each one falling with the heavy, reluctant weight of a debt unpaid, as I worked to finish the census ledger for the walled town of Oakhaven. My hands, usually steady enough to trace the...
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