The Pale Verdict
The quill pen felt heavy in my hand, its feather tip scratching against the rough, cream-colored paper of the ledger my father had used to track the mill’s output before the fever took him. I held it the way he taught me, thumb pressing firmly against the shaft, but my knuckles were white and trembling, a vibration that traveled up my arm and settled in my chest like a trapped bird. Outside,...
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