The Wistful Letter
The ink is wet. It bleeds into the heavy cream paper like a bruise. You are writing to Silas. You are demanding he release you. Your hand trembles. Not from cold, though the air in the study is sharp enough to cut. It trembles because you are afraid. You are afraid of the book. It sits on the desk before you, bound in iron bands that have rusted into the leather. You call it the ledger. Silas...
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