The Faded Photograph
The iron gate shrieked against the stone. It was a sound like a dying beast. Thomas stood before it, his hand trembling on the cold bar. The mist was thick. It tasted of ash and old blood. Behind him, the forest watched. It did not blink. It waited. Thomas was a clerk. He wore the grey coat of the city. He was small. He was quiet. He was not a warrior. He was not a king. He was the man who...
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