The Wistful Silence
The rain tapped against the glass. It was a rhythmic, mechanical sound. Like a clock. Or a heartbeat. But colder. Mara sat in the chair by the window. She held the brass tuning fork in her hand. It was cold. It had been cold for hours. She had not dropped it. She had not broken it. The instrument was intact. The metal was dull. It reflected nothing. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The steam...
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