The Faded Apartment
The sword was made of bone. It was not a metaphor. It was a physical object, carved from the femur of a giant, smoothed by centuries of friction against the earth, and it was cold in Thomas Bradshaw’s hand. He gripped it with both fists, his knuckles white, the tendons in his forearms standing out like cables under pale skin. The air around him did not smell of rain or rot, as he had expected...
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