The Faded Chronicle
You wake with the taste of copper in your mouth, a metallic tang that clings to the back of your teeth like a bad penny, and the first thing you see is the red marker on the wall, a jagged line that looks less like a correction and more like a wound inflicted by someone who did not care if the plaster held together. The room is your father’s study, a place of dust motes dancing in the shafts of...
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