The Wistful Mirror
The vellum is rough under my thumb, gritty with the dust of centuries. It is a map of the Rhine delta, drawn in iron gall ink that has faded to the color of dried blood. I hold it with both hands, my fingers trembling against the edge, and I can feel the pulse of my own wrist beating against the parchment. Friday is the deadline for the monograph, and the ink blots in the margin look like open...
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