The Distant Ghost
The rain in the valley did not wash the world clean; it merely made the mud slicker and the shadows longer. Thomas Bradshaw sat on the stone bench outside the apothecary, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had gone cold an hour ago. He was a man of few words, a merchant of glass and iron, but lately, the silence inside him had become a weight he could not shift. The building behind him,...
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