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Flakes of red wax clung to Tychicus’s thumb like dried blood. He brushed them away, unrolled the smaller scroll until the parchment sighed, and held it where the morning light could strike the ink.
Every head leaned forward. Many of those gathered could not read. Even those who could still wanted the letter to be heard, because in our assemblies the messenger became the voice of the one who wrote. A household became a single ear. Letters from the apostles were not mere ink to us—they were the lifeblood of the assemblies. Many had been hungry for news and correction, because it had been a long while since any word had come to our house by a trusted hand.
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