The Wistful Show
The parchment lay flat on the oak table, its edges frayed and brown with age, listing the specific tinctures required for the wasting sickness that had taken my brother Thomas three winters past. I read the list twice, the ink smudged where my thumb had pressed too hard in the cold, noting the single line item that mattered: *Tincture of Blackthorn, distilled in the third week of November, one...
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