The Distant Legend
The fire did not start with a spark. It started with a smell. Wet wool. Sulfur. Old blood. Thomas smelled it first. He was twelve years old and standing in the rain, holding the umbrella over the head of his older brother, Silas. The umbrella was black. It was torn at the hem. They stood on the corner of 5th and Main, watching the Grand Hotel bleed light into the dark. "It is gone," Silas said....
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