The Faded Photograph
The forest did not sleep, but it did not wake, either. It existed in a suspended breath, a state of perpetual twilight where the light was not yellow or blue, but a sickly, bruised violet that seeped through the canopy like ink into water. Thomas Bradshaw sat beneath the roots of an ancient oak, his hands bound not by rope, but by the sheer, crushing weight of his own guilt. He was a prisoner...
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