The Distant Joke
The ledger on the table weighed exactly three pounds, four ounces, a weight you had checked three times in the last hour because the numbers inside refused to balance with the reality of the air. You were Ewan, forty-two years old, a warden of the Highland mist, and you had walked for nine days to reach this decaying stone manor before the winter solstice, your boots heavy with mud that had...
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