The Faded Dust
The dream was not a dream but a recollection so sharp it cut the air in the small, damp cellar beneath the Whitmore estate, a place where the stone walls sweated condensation that smelled of iron and old rain, and in that darkness, Elias Whitmore, a man whose uniform had long since been stripped of its insignia by the slow, grinding wheel of bureaucracy, saw the face of his father, not as he...
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