The Faded Portrait
Can Sergei Orlov cross the river before the ice takes him? He stood at the edge of the settlement, the wind cutting through his coat with a sound like tearing canvas. The air was still, a physical weight that pressed against his eardrums, but the cold was a dry, biting thing that settled in the joints. In his hands, he held the faded portrait of his son, the paper brittle as autumn leaves. The...
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