The Wistful Grid
The ink is wet on the parchment, and your hand shakes as you sign the requisition for firewood. It is a small tremor, barely a flicker, but it mars the final flourish of your name, Thomas Bradshaw, Sergeant of the King’s Guard. You blot the stain with a scrap of wool, the rough texture gritty against your skin, and fold the paper into the pile of unpaid debts that now governs your existence....
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