The Pale Door
The parchment lay flat on the oak desk, its edges curling slightly in the dry air of the scriptorium. It was a letter of censure, sealed with the Abbot’s black wax, and the ink had not yet dried where the Abbot had pressed his thumb. I read the words twice, the first time for the content, the second for the weight of the silence they implied. My left hand, the one that had not trembled in...
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