The Faded Shield
The ink on the seal was still wet when I saw the eyes of the man in the alley. I am a maker of marks. A chiseler of seals. In this city of stone and shadow, where the air tastes of coal smoke and old rain, trust is not a feeling. It is a impression. It is the specific pressure of a hand pushing a waxed block into hot tallow. My name is Thomas Bradshaw, and for twenty years, I have cut the faces...
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