The Wistful Show
The door to the watchtower groaned shut. It was a heavy sound, final and metallic, sealing the world outside. Inside, the air was thin. It tasted of rust and old sweat. Elias stood by the glass. He was old. His knees clicked when he shifted weight. The pain was a dull, constant hum in his joints. It reminded him that time was not a river. It was a millstone. Grinding him down. He looked at the...
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