The Golden Visit
The rain against the window of the high tower was not a sound but a presence, a wet, heavy hand pressing against the glass, reminding Thomas Whitmore that the world outside was alive, rotting, and indifferent to the stillness he had cultivated for three years in the cold stone cell. He sat on the edge of his straw mattress, the rough fibers biting into his skin, his hands resting in his lap,...
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