The Faded Attic

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2026-08-22 11:30:02 -

The Faded Attic

The mud on my boots was dry and cracked, a map of the last three days’ ride. I sat in the saddle, my hands white-knuckled on the reins, holding the tin of honey against my chest like a shield. It was the last of Margaret’s recipe, the wax worn thin by years of use, the lid bent slightly from being opened and closed too many times. I was thirty-four, a border guard with twelve years of service,...

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