The Faded Dust
The dust in the cellar did not settle; it hovered, a suspended galaxy of grey motes caught in the slivers of light that pierced the boarded shutters. It was a heavy, old dust, the kind that tasted of iron and forgotten centuries. Thomas Ashworth stood in the center of the room, his boots sinking slightly into the packed earth, and he looked up at the ceiling beams, which groaned under the...
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