The Faded Portrait
The fire in Galway had not been a tragedy in the way poets described it, but a business transaction conducted by men with ledgers and torches. I remember the smell of the thatch, a sweet, rotting scent that clung to my clothes for weeks, and the way the rain hissed against the embers, turning the street into a slurry of ash and mud. I was forty years old, a physician in name only, for the law...
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