The Wistful Silence

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2026-08-24 19:00:59 -

Silvio Costa, forty-two, a scribe in the hill town of Ragusa, had hands that trembled like dry reeds in the wind. The Rot had taken the small joints first, stiffening the knuckles until the quill felt like a broken stick in his grip. He sat in the scriptorium, the air heavy with iron gall and old parchment, waiting for the fog to lift so the boats could pass. But the fog did not lift. It...

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