The Faded Photograph
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a grey curtain woven from the breath of the dead. It clung to the windows of the manor house, blurring the world outside into a watercolor smear of slate and moss. Inside, the air tasted of iron and old paper. Silas stood in the center of the hall, his hands at his sides, fingers twitching as if he still gripped the hilt of a sword that had not been...
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