The Faded River
The hand of Thomas Bradshaw, pale and trembling against the cold iron of the carriage door, seemed to belong to a different man than the one who had stood upright in the market square only a fortnight prior, and as the wheels ground over the cobblestones of the ancient town, the sound was not that of metal on stone but of bones breaking, a slow and rhythmic cracking that echoed the fracture...
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