The Faded Dust
The morning light entered the kitchen of the Whitmore estate not as a gift but as an accusation, slanting through the grime-caked windows to settle upon the table where Thomas Whitmore sat alone with a bowl of porridge that had long since cooled into a hard, gray paste. He did not eat. He simply stared at the congealed mass, watching the way the condensation from the steam of his breath formed...
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