The Faded Portrait
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, grey drizzle that turned the gravel path of the estate into a slurry of mud and regret, and you sat in the study, the heavy oak door locked behind you, listening to the water tap against the single pane of glass as if the world outside were trying to break in. You are a man of letters, a scholar of old texts, a man who has spent his life...
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