The Distant Garden
The ink bled into the parchment not as a stain, but as a root system, spreading with a wet, organic persistence that defied the dry, cold air of the scriptorium. I, Elias, scribe of the Abbey of St. Jude in the year 1204, had spent the better part of the night copying the forbidden *Garden of Echoes*, my hands trembling not from the biting frost that seeped through the stone walls, but from the...
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