The Faded Photograph
The ink had not dried on the parchment when the first arrow struck the shield, a sharp thud that vibrated through my bones and into the hollow of my chest where my father’s heartbeat used to be, a rhythm I had spent three years trying to drown out with the smell of wet wool and the bitter tang of old iron. I stood in the narrow pass of the Grey Wood, the mist so thick it felt like breathing in...
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