The Faded Portrait

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2026-08-20 03:12:26 -

He dreamt of the tower. It stood in the mist, a spine of white stone rising from the bog. It was not a ruin. It was perfect. It was waiting. Waking, the cold bit into his bones. The rain hammered the canvas of the tent. It was a sound like static, like the void between stars. "Up," said the man in the next cot. "The road doesn't wait for sleep." It was Thomas. He did not look up. He was lacing...

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