The Distant Affair
The rain had not stopped for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of the garrison square into a slick, black mirror reflecting the dim, flickering lanterns. It was a wet, cold thing, the kind of damp that seeped into the bones and settled in the joints, making the old ache in Thomas Bradshaw’s left shoulder throb with a dull, persistent rhythm. He stood at the...
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