The Wistful Voyage
The leather of the ledger is split at the spine, the grain rough and dry under your fingertips, a texture that feels less like animal skin and more like the cracked earth of a dried riverbed. You hold it in the scriptorium, the candlelight flickering against the damp stone walls, the air thick with the scent of tallow and old vellum. It is October, and the frost has begun to creep up from the...
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