The Pale Letter
The ink on the parchment was the color of a bruise that had finally settled, a deep, muddy purple that seemed to pulse in the dim light of the archive, and I held the sheet between my fingers as if it were a live thing, feeling the slight dampness of the fibers against my skin. I am Elara Vane, thirty-two years old, a junior archivist at the Ministry of Records, and for the past three weeks I...
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