The Distant Legend
The nib of the pen, cold and sharp, bites into the vellum with a sound like a needle tearing silk. You hold it there, suspended, watching the black ink pool in the hollow of the letter 'a' before it dries into a permanent, dark scar. The room is freezing, the kind of damp chill that settles in the joints and stays, but your hands are shaking, not from the cold, but from the exhaustion of trying...
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