The Wistful Grid
The summons came at half past four, a sharp, percussive rap against the oak of my study door that sounded less like a knock and more like a verdict being delivered. I was in the middle of transcribing a marginalia note from the Whispering Codex, a manuscript of such peculiar density that the ink seemed to bleed upward into the parchment when I looked away, a phenomenon Dr. Aris had long...
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