The Wistful Witness
The gate stood open. It had not been open for a century, or perhaps it had always been open, waiting for a foot to cross the threshold that no longer held. Thomas Ashworth stepped over the cracked stone. His boots, worn thin at the heel, clicked against the flagstones with a rhythm that sounded like a slow, dying heartbeat. He did not look up. To look up was to admit that the sky was still...
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