The Faded Paradox
The rain stops. You stand on the porch. The wood is wet. It smells of rot. You look at the gate. It is closed. You push it. It sticks. You push harder. The hinge groans. It opens. You walk in. The village is quiet. The mist hangs low. It hides the streets. It hides the people. You are the only one moving. Your boots splash. The sound is loud. It feels wrong. You are the Inquisitor. This is your...
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