The Faded Portrait
The ink had failed three times already, and the weight of the wet parchment in my hands felt like holding a slab of cold river stone. It was the year of our Lord 1347, and the winter solstice was less than a fortnight away, a deadline that the Abbot had set with the same rigid precision he applied to the counting of the monastery’s grain sacks. I was fifty years old, my knuckles swollen with...
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