The Wistful Silence
The fog rolled in from the sea, thick and grey, erasing the line where the water ended and the air began. Elias Thorne stood alone on the cliff’s edge, his coat buttoned to the chin, his hands trembling not from cold but from the weight of the silence behind him. He was a scholar of old tongues, a man who had spent forty years deciphering the dead, yet here, in the living world, he could not...
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