The Faded Photograph

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2026-08-19 15:14:00 -

The hawk sits on the windowsill. It does not move. It does not blink. Its feathers are the color of dried blood and old ash. I watch it. I have watched it for three hours. My coffee has gone cold. The ice in my glass has melted into a pool of dilution. The room is quiet. A heavy, thick quiet. It presses against my ears. It settles in my chest. I am old. My joints ache in the damp. The pain is a...

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