The Distant Ghost
The ink was still wet on the final page of the *Book of Hours* when the stain appeared, a dark, viscous blotch in the margin that defied the dry, cold air of the scriptorium. Brother Thomas, forty years old and his hands stained permanently with oak gall and iron salts, stared at the anomaly as if it were a wound in his own skin. He had spent three months preparing this page, the final...
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