The Faded Portrait

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2026-08-20 11:36:20 -

The carriage wheels had not yet ceased their rhythmic, iron-clad clattering against the cobblestones of the old quarter when I first noticed the mark on my own hand, a faint, bruised purpleness that seemed to pulse in time with the dying breath of the industrial city outside the window. We were traveling to the estate of Mr. Blackwood, a man whose name was spoken in the drawing rooms of London...

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