The Faded Shield
The rain did not fall; it hung. It sat upon the eaves of the Whitmore estate like a held breath, trembling against the slate. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old paper and wet wool. Julian stood by the window, his small hands pressed against the cold glass. He was twelve, but his eyes were old. They watched the garden below, where the ivy clawed at the stone wall, green and hungry....
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