The Faded Photograph
The harvest feast in Harrow’s End was a spectacle of rusted iron and damp wool, the air thick with the smell of boiled turnips and the metallic tang of the fog that had settled over the village for the last three years. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood at the head of the long table, his uniform pressed to a sharpness that seemed an insult to the grime of the room, his eyes fixed on the letter in his...
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