The Wistful Letter
The bell tolled. It was a deep, bronze sound that shook the dust from the rafters of the watchtower. Thomas stood. He did not move. He remained rooted to the stone floor, his boots heavy, his heart a stone in his chest. The mist outside the narrow window was thick. It pressed against the glass like a living thing. It wanted in. It wanted him. Thomas was a guard. He served the Duke. The Duke’s...
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