The Distant Crown
The iron crown sat on the shelf. It did not gleam. It was dull, pitted, and cold. Thomas watched it. He was seven. His hands were small. He wiped the dust with his sleeve. The fabric was rough. It smelled of damp wool. The room was quiet. A single light cut through the dark. It fell on the metal. Thomas pulled his hand back. The cold bit him. He shook his fingers. He looked at the crown again....
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