The Wistful Witness
The wool has worn thin on your left shoulder. You feel the cold there. It is a constant, dull ache. A hole in the fabric of your days. You are not a man. You are not a woman. You are the keeper of the hearth. You are the shape that lives in the corner. You are the thing that knows the weight of every word spoken in the hall. The castle is old. Stone bites into the earth. Rain slicks the gray...
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