The Faded Photograph
The rain in the city of Aethelgard did not fall so much as it was pressed down from a sky the color of bruised plums, a heavy, persistent weight that seemed to press the very life out of the cobblestones. I stood in the narrow, damp alley behind my workshop, watching the gutters swell with runoff that carried leaves and the detritus of a world that had moved on without asking my permission. My...
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