The Wistful Letter
Elias, the scribe, is summoned to the infirmary where the light fails to reach the corners of the stone floor, and the air tastes of sulfur and wet wool. The Abbot lies still on the pallet, his skin mapped with the black blotches of the plague, his fingers curled around a scrap of vellum so dark it seems to drink the weak afternoon sun filtering through the high, barred window. Brother Thomas,...
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