The Distant Joke

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2026-08-22 00:30:25 -

The Distant Joke

The rain in Oram did not fall; it seeped. It oozed from the pores of the cobblestones and the weeping brickwork of the tenement blocks, a constant, damp exhalation that tasted of iron and old mortar. Thomas Bradshaw stood in the center of the Market Square, his boots sinking slightly into the mud, the weight of his iron mace heavy and cold in his right hand. He was thirty years old, a warden of...

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