The Washerwoman

Each morning, the woman rises and carries her washing down to the brook nearby. Kneeling on arthritic knees, she grimaces and starts her daily toil. No matter how hard she works, the basket never seems to empty. There are always more to wash.

Some are lightly soiled and easily cleaned, ready to hang on the line and dry, but others … they are so stained that all of her skill and effort cannot get them clean.

She pauses and looks up from her work as a group of warriors pass by, sadness in her eyes. More souls to wash clean.

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