The Distant Summer
The ink on your fingers has a life of its own, a dark, viscous stain that seems to seep into the pores of your skin rather than rest upon the surface. You are Elias, thirty-two years old, a scribe in the village of Oakhaven, and your hands tremble as you dip the quill, for the parchment before you is not merely paper but a boundary, a threshold where the solid world of fact begins to dissolve...
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