The Wistful Silence
The rain had been falling for three days, a steady, gray curtain that blurred the edges of the estate and turned the manicured lawns into a muddy, breathing sponge. Elias Thorne stood by the window of his study, watching the water drip from the eaves in a rhythmic, metronomic pulse that seemed to count down the seconds of his life. He was a man of sixty years, though the weight of his uniform,...
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