The Distant Journey
The rain fell on the slate roof of the manor with a steady, rhythmic hiss. It was the only sound that filled the high ceiling of the library. Sir Thomas Bradshaw sat in the wingback chair, his hands folded tightly in his lap. The leather of the chair creaked under his weight. He did not move. He had not moved in hours. The air in the room was stale and thick with the scent of old paper and damp...
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