The Wistful Saga
The ledger lay open on the desk, its pages yellowed and brittle, smelling faintly of dust and old ink. I held a fountain pen, the nib trembling against the paper as I attempted to balance the accounts for the winter coat fund. My hand shook. It had been shaking for weeks, a persistent tremor that traveled from my wrist to my elbow, a symptom I tried to ignore but could not. I was Elias,...
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