The Faded Paradox
The rain in the Valley of Ash did not fall so much as it hung, a heavy, grey curtain that smelled of wet iron and old rot. Thomas Bradshaw stood at the edge of the cliff, his boots sinking into the mud that had once been the courtyard of his home. He was a man made of sharp angles and duller regrets, his uniform stripped of its insignia, the brass buttons pried off and lost to the earth,...
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