The Distant Promise
The parchment lay flat on the oak desk, its surface a pale, unyielding white that seemed to drink the weak light filtering through the high, narrow windows of the scriptorium. Brother Elias adjusted his spectacles, the brass frames cold against his temples, and stared at the single word *Dominus* he had just attempted to inscribe in the margin of the *Book of Hours*. The ink did not sit on the...
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