The Distant Ghost
"Did you leave it on the shelf?" The question hung in the air, thin and cold. Thomas Bradshaw did not look up from his boots. He was lacing them, tight, tighter, until the leather bit into his shins. The room smelled of wet wool and old iron. Outside, the wind howled against the stone walls of the outpost, a sound like a wounded animal. "Left it?" Thomas asked. His voice was low, a rumble in...
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