The Faded Attic
The iron stylus bit into the parchment with a sound like a nail driven into wet wood, Enzo Orsini’s wrist locked in a grip that had hardened over twenty years of grinding oak gall and iron sulfate into a slurry that smelled of rust and old blood. He was forty-two, and his hands, mapped with the faint white scars of burns and knife slips, moved with the mechanical precision of a millwright...
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