The Faded Photograph
The rain hit the carriage windows like gravel. Thomas Whitmore watched the glass smear the world into grey streaks. He was tired. His bones ached. The wheel turned. The road was wet. He drove north. The destination was close. The air grew cold. He pulled the collar up. Who was he? A man of duty. A man of fact. He sought the truth. The truth was a thing. It could be held. It could be weighed. He...
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