The Wistful Silence

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2026-08-24 04:27:46 -

The quill was heavy in my hand, its feather damp and dark, resting against the edge of the parchment where the ink had begun to bleed, not spreading as ink should, but welling up like a fresh wound in the skin of the paper. I held it there, suspended in the amber light of the oil lamp, watching the redness seep through the fibers, a small, vivid stain that marked the boundary between the...

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