The Wistful Silence
The brass compass lay in your palm, its needle trembling with a frantic, useless energy, as if it too were tired of pointing north. You turned it over, the metal cold and slick with the damp that had seeped into your gloves, and watched the scratch on the casing—a souvenir from a scuffle in the yard three winters ago—catch the weak, grey light filtering through the watchtower’s narrow slit. The...
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