The Faded Dust
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the thatch of the cottage with a persistent, rhythmic violence, a sound that seeped into the marrow of Thomas Ashworth. He sat by the hearth, his back turned to the fire. His shoulders were hunched, a permanent curve carved by years of labor and shame. The heat did not reach him. He was cold, a cold that lived in the joints, in the old...
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