The Wistful Voyage
The frost came early to Oakhaven, biting at the edges of the archive window until the glass wept with cold. I am Elias, a scribe of forty years, and my task was simple: to copy the final chapter of the town chronicle before the winter sealed the stone halls. The ink in my well was black and still, a mirror to the silence that hung heavy in the air. We call it the Hollow. It is not a wind, nor a...
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