The Distant Promise

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2026-08-18 02:29:12 -

The rain hit the glass in steady, gray sheets. Silas stood in the hallway. He held a revolver. The wood was warm from his grip. His knuckles were white. The house was quiet. Too quiet. He looked at the door. Oak. Heavy. Brass handles. The handle was cold. He did not touch it. Not yet. Inside, the air smelled of dust and old paper. It smelled of time. Time that had stopped. Or maybe time that...

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