The Wistful Crossroads
The quill weighed four grams, a precise measurement Elias had taken three times that morning, checking the balance of the nib against the weight of his own trembling hand. He stood in the center of the Ministry of Records, a stone vault that smelled of dust and old iron, and he counted the hours until the Director’s arrival. There were four hours. He needed four hours to steady his palsy, to...
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