The Faded Sutra
The ink on the page is not black. It is red. It is the color of old bruises, of arterial spray, of the inside of a mouth after a scream. You stare at the manuscript, the Faded Sutra, and your hands tremble with a vibration that has nothing to do with the cold. The script shifts as you watch, the letters dissolving and reforming into words that were not there a moment ago. They speak your name....
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