The Faded Photograph
The wind at the Kestrel Ridge outpost did not howl; it screamed. It tore through the gaps in the stone walls and rattled the single pane of glass in the office window, a sound that had worn into my bones over the last three weeks. I stood by the heater, staring at the wall where the department’s crest hung crooked. My uniform jacket hung on the hook by the door, the elbows worn thin, the fabric...
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