The Wistful Saga
The paper was thin, brittle as a winter leaf, and the ink had bled into the fibers in a way that suggested haste or fear, or perhaps both. It was a list, written in a hand I recognized as belonging to Brother Thomas, the infirmarian who had once taught me how to grind chalk for the floor, and it detailed the precise quantities of willow bark required to break a fever that was eating my brother...
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