The Faded Shield
The shield hung above the hearth, its surface dull with the patina of decades. William Ashworth had not looked directly at it in seven years—not since the morning he found his father's letter tucked behind the brass, the ink bleeded by rain that seeped through the attic roof. It was a small thing, that shield, no larger than a dinner plate, stamped with a crest so eroded the lion at its centre...
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