The Faded Bouquet
The pen hovered, a sliver of black obsidian poised above the vellum, and Elias Thorne watched the ink bleed. It did not spread; it crawled. The letters of the entry, *Debt Owed: E. Thorne Sr.,* rearranged themselves into a new configuration while his gaze was fixed on the margin, a trick of the light, he told himself, though the air in the archive tasted of copper and old dust. He was...
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