The Faded Photograph
The rain fell on the stone courtyard of the Abbey of St. Jude with a persistent, hollow rhythm, drumming against the flagstones until the sound became less a noise and more a vibration in the marrow. Sir Alistair stood at the edge of the cloister, his hand resting on the hilt of a sword that had seen three decades of campaign and a dozen more of rust. He was not a young man. The years had...
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