Secret Box and a final breath.

Rest in peace my old friend

Lord Farmington


Peering through narrow slits of old and wrinkled eyes, he sees the dust catching in the last of the daylight, old floorboards creak underfoot as he makes his way down the dark corridor to his study. Carpet running sideways along the adjoining and narrow stretch running from the door frame of an old, locked, heavy Oak door.

Reaching Into a threadbare dressing gown with crooked and liver spotted pale hands, he shakily fumbles out a rusty key ring with a single polished and well kept key that reflects part of his aged forehead.

With breath rattling in his chest he slowly extends a skeletal hand to the lock, the key just grazing to the side from trembling fingers and an aching wrist. Pain gathering in his lungs, he takes a breath from the small tank he keeps by his side and guides the key into a difficult lock and groans…

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