The Faded Portrait

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2026-08-24 19:02:23 -

I My hands were already black with grease when I found the bird. It sat on the workbench, a thing of white porcelain, its wing cracked down to the beak. I was thirty-two, and I had come to the Duke’s estate to pay my father’s debt, carrying this broken thing like a confession. The air in the workshop was cold, smelling of ozone and stale sweat. One hundred and nine of Corvid Lane was a place...

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