The Faded Portrait

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2026-08-19 16:59:45 -

The bell in the town hall tolled for the seventh time. It was a dull, flat sound. It hung in the air like damp wool. Silas stood in the square. He held his rifle. The wood was cold. It was old. It was his father’s. It was his grandfather’s. The metal was cold too. The crowd was thin. The wind was not. It cut through the wool of his coat. It bit his ears. It bit his nose. He did not move. He did...

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