The Faded Portrait

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2026-08-18 17:56:21 -

The road was a vein of red clay, pulsing under the weight of the cart. Silas felt the axle bite into his shoulders, a dull, rhythmic throb that matched the beating of his heart. He was twelve, lean as a whip, with eyes the color of wet slate. Behind him, the cart held the box. Inside the box was the bird. It was a hawk. Or what was left of one. Silas had found it in the hedgerow near the mill,...

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