The Distant Summer
The chainmail shirt hung from a hook by the door. It clanked softly in the draft. I had worn it for forty years. It had been my skin. My shield. My shame. I looked at the links. Each one was a promise. Each one was a lie. The village was burning. Not with fire. With silence. The smoke was thick and gray. It smelled of ash and old blood. I stood on the hill. I watched the flames lick at the...
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