The Wistful Show
The iron door was cold against your palm. You knew it. You had felt that chill for years. It seeped through the leather of your gloves. It settled in the bones of your wrist. You stood in the hall. The air smelled of rust and old paper. A single lamp flickered. It cast long, jagged shadows. The object sat on the desk. It was a pocket watch. It was yours. Or it had been. It was brass. The face...
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