The Faded Paradox
The quill was in my hand, the nib wet and heavy, and the shadow was already there, hovering over the parchment like a breath of cold air that refused to dissipate. I had been working on the *Book of Hours* for three days, trying to secure the pension that would keep me fed in my old age, but the ink I laid down on the page did not stay. It vanished. Not dried, not smudged, but erased, as if the...
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