The Faded Shield
The moth had been there for six years, a translucent blur of gray wings that hovered just above the polished oak of the conference table during every budget review, a silent, spectral witness to the slow erosion of Elias Thorne’s life. Elias, a forty-two-year-old groundskeeper with hands roughened by decades of pruning the blackberry brambles that strangled the asylum’s perimeter, sat in the...
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