The Faded Portrait
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the high windows of the manor house, a relentless, hollow percussion that seemed to vibrate in my teeth. I sat alone in the study, the fire dying to embers. The air smelled of wet wool and old paper. My hands rested on the armrests, trembling slightly. Not from cold. From the weight of the silence. I was a man of the law, or had been,...
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