The Distant Whispers
The rain hammered against the slate roof, a relentless, rhythmic pounding that vibrated through the floorboards of the old manor. Arthur sat in the high-backed chair, his hands resting on the arms, fingers curled inward. He was not looking at the door. He was looking at his own hands. They were trembling. A fine, high-frequency shiver that he could not stop. The house smelled of damp wool and...
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