It wasn't always silent.

Laughter used to resonate through our halls, flooding out of open doors.  Stories were passed from lips to soul as they transcended their magic from generation to generation.  Conversations were held in delightful, care-free manners.  You could talk to anyone and anyone could talk.

Or so the legends say.  But that was before the curse.

No one remembers why or when.  The myths say a witch had cursed us out of her anger.  She did not take away our ability to speak, though she might as well have.  Every word we say, a whisper, a declaration, a greeting, immediately tattoos itself onto our skin.

Permanent.  Uneraseable.

We are stained.

The End

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