The Faded Sutra
The ink on the ledger page was still wet, glistening like a bruise under the flickering candlelight, as Elara Holloway pressed her thumb into the wax seal with a force that cracked the brittle surface, a small, sharp sound that was swallowed instantly by the oppressive dampness of the House of Whispers atrium. She was thirty-two years old, an archivist by trade and a debtor by circumstance, and...
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