The Wistful Letter
The candle flame in the scriptorium of the Abbey of St. Jude did not flicker; it trembled, a thin, white vein of light pulsing against the encroaching dark of the winter solstice, casting long, distorted shadows that seemed to reach for the hands of Sister Agatha, who sat hunched over the vellum of the *Book of Hours*, her quill scratching with a frantic, desperate rhythm that sounded less like...
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