The Distant Clue
The scriptorium smelled of ink, damp wool, and the sharp, metallic tang of fear. Elias stood before the heavy oak desk, his hands clasped so tightly the knuckles turned white. He was forty years old, a man whose spine had been bent by years of hunching over parchment, and he felt the weight of the year 1347 pressing down on his shoulders like a physical stone. His wife, Margaret, lay in the...
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