The Faded Dust
The parchment lay flat on the oak desk, the ink still wet and glistening under the tallow light. It was a list, written in your own cramped hand, detailing the debts of the scriptorium: three pounds for sheepskin, two for gall, a half-crown for the repair of the broken window latch. You stared at the figures, the numbers blurring into a grey smear that matched the dust settling on your...
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