The Wistful Letter
The roof collapsed at noon. It did not fall with a scream. It fell with a sigh, a long, dusty exhalation of timber and slate that swallowed the light. Dust rose in a thick, gray cloud, choking the air of the small town of Oakhaven. It settled on the shoulders of the people who stood in the street. It settled on the hands of the men who held their hats. It settled on the face of Elias Thorne....
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