The Faded Photograph
The carriage wheels bite into the gravel of the York Road, a rhythmic, grinding sound that seems to hollow out the very marrow of your bones as you watch the city of Ashworth recede into the grey mist, a sprawling beast of brick and soot that you have served for twenty years and which now serves to spit you out, unemployed and unmoored, into the cold November air. You are Thomas Hale, a man of...
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