The Distant Ghost
The gate creaked. It was not a sound of welcome. It was the groan of old wood failing against the weight of the sky. Elias stood before it. His hands were bound. Not by rope. By the weight of what he had done. The iron was cold. The iron was always cold. It bit into his wrists. It bit into the years. He looked up. The tower rose above him. It was black. It was jagged. It was a tooth sticking...
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