The Faded Photograph
The ink had dried on the fourteenth line of the Psalter when the first petal of the orchid curled black. Brother Thomas counted the drops of water he had used that morning: three for the scriptorium, two for his cell, one for the orchid. The plant sat in a clay pot on the high shelf, its stems thick as a man’s wrist, its leaves a deep, waxy green that seemed to drink the dim light of the room....
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