The Wistful Silence
You remember the weight of the iron not as a burden, but as a truth. It sits in your hand, cold and unyielding, a promise that the world can be ordered, that chaos can be struck down with a single, precise blow. The mist hangs low over the moor, a gray shroud that swallows the foot of the hill where your father, Thomas Bradshaw, stands with his back to you. He is old. His spine is curved like a...
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