The Wistful Witness
"Is it the fog again, Elias? Or have you finally lost your mind?" I looked up from the ledger, the nib scratching a final, meaningless line across the page. The ink had dried before the pen lifted, black and sharp as a cut. I did not answer immediately. My hand, resting on the grain of the desk, felt strange, the skin tight and cold, as if the wood were leaching the warmth from my bones....
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