The Faded Photograph
The frost on the windowpane of the watch house had formed into intricate, fern-like crystals, a delicate lacework that seemed to mock the heavy, iron-shod boots you kept on the cold stone floor. You were the Constable of Oakhaven, a title that held more weight in the past than it did now, for the town had long since outgrown the need for a single man to hold the line against the chaos of the...
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