The Distant Ghost
The dream was cold. It tasted of iron. Warden Silas Thorne woke with a gasp. The air in the stone cell was thick. It smelled of damp moss and old sweat. He lay on the straw bed. His hands trembled. He looked at the bowl on the floor. It was clay. Chipped at the rim. Inside, the broth simmered. It was clear. It steamed faintly in the dark. The smell was sharp. It cut through the staleness of the...
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