The Distant Promise
You’re telling me the man is gone? I set the quill down, the ink still wet, and looked at the silver cufflink lying in the mud of the yard. It was a small, geometric thing, stamped with a star, and it sat there with a stillness that felt wrong, as if the earth had simply forgotten how to hold it. The rain had stopped an hour ago, but the air in the yard still held the damp, metallic scent of...
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