The Faded Chronicle
My pen was already bleeding into the paper when I noticed the ink refusing to dry, a dark smear that seemed to pulse against the grain of the old diary, the edges of the page curling inward as if the words themselves were contracting in pain. I had spent three weeks in this drafty apartment on eighty-four of Corvid Lane, transcribing my mother’s final entries, driven by a terror that the fading...
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