The Faded Portrait

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2026-08-22 12:12:36 -

The ash started on my left hand. It was not a bruise, nor a burn, but a drying, a turning to grey powder that flaked away when I brushed it against my apron. I stood in the kitchen of the old stone house, the smell of damp wool and rot thick in the air, and watched my sister Mara’s fingers turn black. She sat at the table, her eyes wide and wet, staring at her own hands as if they belonged to a...

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