The Faded Guest

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2026-08-19 18:44:43 -

The Faded Guest

The ash on your face is cold. It tastes of sulfur and old wood. You wipe it away with a hand that trembles. The glove is torn. Blood seeps through the leather. It is red. It is warm. It is yours. The tower burns. The flames are not just fire. They are a mouth. They chew at the stone. They chew at the oak. They chew at the memory of what was. You stand at the threshold. The wind howls through...

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