The Wistful Show
The gate was iron. It did not rust. It stood in a field of grey grass that did not grow. It did not die. It simply was. Edmund stood before it. His hands were rough. They were the hands of a man who built things. He had built houses in London. He had built bridges in the countryside. He knew the weight of stone. He knew the tension of rope. He was not supposed to be there. The air was thin. It...
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