The Faded Shield
The rain hit the window like gravel. I didn’t look up. My hands were shaking, not from the cold, but from the weight of the thing I was holding. It was a small, tarnished shield. Not a weapon. A boundary. A line drawn in the air that said *stop*. I had carried it for thirty years. It was my shield. It was my life. "You’re late, Thomas," said the voice behind me. I turned. He stood in the...
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