The Faded Portrait
The rain has not stopped for three days, a ceaseless, gray weeping that turns the cobblestones of the ancient garrison into a slick, treacherous mirror of the sky, and you walk through it with a rhythm that is less a march than a slow, deliberate surrender to the weight of your own years, your boots sinking into the mud of the courtyard as if the earth itself is trying to hold you fast, to...
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