The Faded Portrait

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2026-08-20 10:05:06 -

The knife was warm. I held it in my right hand, the grip slick with sweat and old blood. My left hand trembled. Not from fear. From cold. The wind off the river cut through my coat, finding the gaps in the wool, biting at the skin of my neck. I looked down at the blade. It was not a weapon. It was a tool. A chisel for the bone. My father sat in the chair. He did not move. His eyes were open,...

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