The Pale Echo
The ink in the well was freezing, a thick sludge that resisted the nib of your quill, and you had to press down with the heel of your palm to force a letter onto the parchment. The air in the crypt of St. Jude’s was heavy, wet with the damp of the earth pressing against the stone, and the single tallow candle on the table flickered, casting long, jittery shadows that danced across the walls....
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