The Wistful Show
The carriage wheels bit into the soft earth of the valley, a rhythmic, grinding sound that seemed to echo not merely against the stone walls of the chateau but against the very marrow of my bones, a ceaseless, percussive warning that I was a man traveling toward his own dissolution, and I did not look up from the leather-bound book in my lap, for to look up would be to admit that the shadows...
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