The Distant Legend
The rain hit the slate roof like a handful of gravel. It was a cold, gray Tuesday. Thomas sat in his study. He held a pen. He did not write. The ink had dried on the nib. He looked at the window. The glass was fogged. He could not see the street. He could only see the black shapes of the trees. They moved. They shook. Thomas was a man of books. He had spent forty years in this house. The house...
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