The Distant Joke
You stand before the heavy oak door of the manor house, the rain slicking your hair into cold, dark ropes that stick to your forehead, and you realize that you are not a hero, you are merely a man who has been lying to himself about the nature of his duty, and the shattering of the porcelain vase in the room behind you, a sound as clear and brittle as a bone snapping, echoes in your mind with a...
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