The Wistful Asylum
The letter was already open, the seal broken and crumpled in a ball of wax that smelled faintly of sulfur and old dust. I held it up to the shaft of pale afternoon light that cut through the high, narrow window, the parchment yellowed and brittle as a dried leaf. The abbot’s handwriting was severe, the ink black and unblended, and the words were not a request but a command: *Come to the archive...
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews