The Wistful Silence
The air inside the workshop of Elias Thorne smelled of heated wool, stale tobacco, and the sharp, metallic tang of rusted iron, a scent that had seeped so deeply into the very grain of the oak floorboards that it seemed to breathe with the house itself, a living exhale that filled the narrow, dimly lit space where the only light came from the single, oil-lamp hanging from the center of the...
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