The Faded Photograph
The willow tree in the center of the square did not sway in the wind, for there was no wind, only a heavy, suspended silence that pressed against the glass of the shop window where Elias stood, his fingers tracing the condensation that bloomed and faded on the cold pane like the fleeting breath of a sleeping child. Inside the shop, the air smelled of beeswax and old paper, a scent that had...
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