The Faded Photograph
The wind in the highlands did not blow so much as it breathed, a slow, rhythmic exhalation that carried the scent of rotting peat and ancient stone into the marrow of Elias’s bones, where it settled like a fine, grey silt that he could feel accumulating in the joints of his hands, those hands that had once been strong enough to crush the heads of crows with a casual twist of the wrist but were...
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