The Faded Chronicle
The iron gate was cold against your palm. You knew it was. You had touched it a thousand times in the last hour, testing the temperature, checking if the metal had shifted, if the rust had flaked away to reveal the bare, weeping steel underneath. But it hadn’t changed. It stood there, immovable, a sentinel of the past that refused to age, while you did. You are old. The thought is not a fact...
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