The Distant Affair
The rain hits the shield. It does not stop. You hold it. The wood is wet. The iron rim is cold. It bites into your palm. You are Thomas Bradshaw. You are a soldier. You are old. The road is mud. The sky is grey. You walk. Your legs burn. You do not look back. There is nothing to see. Only the trail. And the weight. You carry the chest. It is small. Oak. Bound in brass. The brass is dark. It was...
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