The Distant Clue
My hand was steady as I pressed the nib to the paper, the ink flowing with a viscosity that felt less like liquid and more like cold oil, and I watched the letter *O* form on the page with a clarity that made my vision blur, the black pigment seeming to sink into the fibers of the rag paper rather than resting upon them. It was a simple entry, a record of the week’s grain purchases from the...
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