The Distant Joke
The ink on the charter bled like a slow, dark weeping, seeping into the grain of the parchment until the letters of your name, Elias Thorne, seemed to writhe under the surface of the paper. You held it up to the slanted light of the Imperial Registry’s reading room, your fingers trembling not from age, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the silence that surrounded you. For forty-two years,...
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