The Wistful Show

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2026-08-19 20:17:40 -

The Wistful Show

The fire did not roar. It whispered. A dry, papery hiss that seemed to come from the walls themselves, from the very grain of the oak. I stood in the center of the hall, my hands bound by rope that had long since cut into my wrists. The pain was a dull, familiar thing. Like an old friend. I am a soldier. Or I was. Before the fire. Before the silence. The room was small. A library, perhaps. Or a...

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