The Wistful Grid
The ink is still wet on the last line of my plea to the Abbot, the words smearing into the coarse parchment like a bruise that refuses to heal, and I find my hand trembling so violently that the nib snaps, leaving a jagged black scar across the page where I wrote your name, Clara, that name which is the only thing keeping me tethered to this wretched existence in the shadows of St. Jude’s. You...
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