The Distant Summer

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2026-08-24 08:23:09 -

The parchment was bleeding again, a slow rust-colored seep that stained the vellum like a bruise forming under the skin. I lifted the quill, my hand steady despite the tremor in my wrist, and watched the ink pool around the word *Miserere*. It was not water. It was not the iron-gall ink I mixed each morning with vinegar and oak galls. It was warm, and it smelled of old iron and wet earth, a...

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