The Wistful Show
The stone gate stood at the end of the lane, white and unyielding against the grey twilight. It did not rust. It did not crumble. It waited. I stood before it, my cloak heavy with the rain of the highlands, my hands trembling not from cold but from the weight of my own failure. I was a scholar once. Now I was merely a man who had run out of ways to save himself. The village behind me was...
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