The Faded Sutra
The road to Blackwood Manor was not merely difficult; it was an act of penance. I climbed the gravel drive in the sleet, my boots sinking into the mud with a sound that felt too loud for the grey afternoon, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts that misted and vanished before I could even form a thought. I was a man who believed in the architecture of truth, in the clean, hard lines of...
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