The Faded Root
The letter lay on the workbench, its edges curling in the dry heat of the workshop, the ink smudged where Elias’s thumb had pressed too hard against the parchment. It was a bill, or perhaps a summons, the distinction blurred by the frantic handwriting of Old Silas, who had left the shop three days ago to tend to his failing lungs in the upper city. The paper smelled of turpentine and old sweat,...
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