The Faded Quadrant
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the high, narrow windows of the St. Jude’s Home for the Aged, a relentless, wet percussion that seemed to seep into the bones of the building. Elias Thorne sat in the corner of the common room, his knees drawn up to his chest. He was a small man, thin as a dried reed, with hands that trembled slightly when he held a cup. He was a...
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