The Distant Ghost
The parchment is thin, brittle at the edges, and smells of the wet stone in the scriptorium where it was dried. You read the final line twice, your eyes tracing the ink that has not yet fully set, before you fold it into a tight square and press it against your chest. It is a letter of dismissal, stamped with the wax seal of the Abbey of St. Jude, a seal so heavy it leaves a bruise on the skin....
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