The Wistful Voyage
The ink is dry, but the paper breathes. You sit at the heavy oak desk in the scriptorium, the wood polished to a mirror sheen by decades of elbows and prayer. You are Elias, forty-two, and you have spent twenty years cataloging the dead to ensure the living remember you. The Silent Codex lies open before you, its pages blank save for the faint, rhythmic pulse of a whisper that only you can...
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