The Faded Portrait

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2026-08-25 02:03:58 -

My hand shook as I forced the quill through the wet paper, the ink bleeding into the fibers like a bruise forming under skin. The rain had been falling for three days, a cold drizzle that soaked through my coat and settled into the marrow of my bones, making every joint ache with a dull, persistent throb. I was thirty-four years old, a scribe for the colonial administration, and I was dying by...

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