The Wistful Show

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2026-08-17 10:48:58 -

The Wistful Show

The hawk sat on the stone sill of the window, its feathers matted and dull, no longer the raptor of the high peaks but a creature of the damp cellar, a thing of broken wing and weary eye. It had been there for three days, refusing the bread that Sir Thomas had sent up on a silver platter, refusing the water, refusing the very air that moved through the heavy oak shutters. The bird was a mirror...

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