The Faded Photograph
The door to the cellar was heavy, oiled with years of neglect, and it did not so much open as surrender, groaning in a long, low exhalation that seemed to pull the air out of the room with it. I stood on the top step, my hand trembling against the cold iron of the railing, watching the darkness below settle into a shape that was not quite a room but a mouth, waiting. Elias was standing at the...
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