The Faded Portrait
The rain against the leaded glass of the watchtower was a rhythmic, ceaseless drumming that seemed to hollow out the stone walls of the keep, a sound that had become so ingrained in my bones over the last decade that I could no longer distinguish it from the beating of my own heart, which was a heavy, slow thing now, like a millstone turning in a dry well. I sat in the dimness of the guardroom,...
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