The Wistful Silence
I woke in the damp dark. Rain tapped the glass. It sounded like fingernails. I lay still. My body felt heavy. It felt like stone. I knew where I was. I had been here before. Or perhaps it was only a dream that refused to end. The air smelled of wet wool and old blood. I sat up. The bed was a frame of black iron. No mattress. Only a thin pad of straw. It had gone soft with use. It had gone soft...
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