The Faded Sutra
"Stop staring at it. You’ll burn your retinas out before the match even strikes." Maren did not look up from the ledger. The paper was brittle, the ink faded to a rust-colored brown that smelled of iron and old pennies. Outside, the wind battered the shingles of the coastal cottage, a rhythmic, percussive hammering that made the windowpane rattle in its frame. It was the week before the...
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