The Faded Attic
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray weeping that turned the cobblestones of the old town square into mirrors reflecting the crumbling spires of the clocktower and the low, heavy sky, and in the window of the small shop that smelled of cedar shavings and beeswax, Elias Thorne sat with his hands resting on the grain of a half-finished oak table, his fingers tracing the...
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