The Distant Whispers
"Look at the leaves, Arthur," said the woman, her voice thin and reedy, cutting through the heavy, stale air of the study. "They are not falling. They are being torn away." Arthur did not look up from the map spread across the mahogany desk, a document so old the ink had faded to a bruised purple, the edges curling like burnt paper. He was a large man, his shoulders still broad enough to block...
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