The Wistful Show
The quill scratched against the parchment, a sound like a rat gnawing through a dry bone. I was writing the date, the twelfth of December, when the ink began to weep. It was not a metaphor; the black liquid swelled in the nib, heavy and viscous, before dripping onto the ledger page and forming a small, perfect eye. I pulled my hand back. The eye blinked. In the scriptorium, the only other sound...
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