The Faded Photograph
The ink on the page of the Codex Aeternus did not dry; it bled, a slow, arterial weep that spread across the vellum like a bruise forming beneath the skin. I sat in the restoration chamber, the air thick with the scent of mildew and the sharper, chemical tang of the solvents Julian had smuggled to me in a tin of ointments, my hand trembling not from the cold of the November night but from the...
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