The tide came in on the seventh night, and Elias Thorne walked through the door.
His wife had been dead twelve years. His brother had been dead fifteen. The cottage by the cove was his alone—a small stone house with a slate roof and a garden that had not seen a trowel in three years. He fished the cove with a hand net, the old Cornish way, and his catch was modest but sufficient. For him and Thomas, his brother's boy, who was fourteen and thin as a whip and never spoke more...
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