The Wistful Crossroads
The ledger required four hundred and twelve entries. I counted them in the morning light, the parchment rough under my fingertips, the ink pot heavy on the desk. By winter solstice, the debt on Thomas’s farm would be cleared, and he would be free. I was Elias, forty-two, the scribe of Blackwood Estate, and my hands were steady. The opposing force was not the cold, nor the weight of the paper,...
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