The Pale Dance
The rain had stopped, but the air still held the weight of it. It pressed against the windows of the apartment on 4th Street, a gray, damp membrane that kept the outside world at bay. Inside, the silence was thick. It tasted of cold coffee and old paper. Elias sat at the kitchen table, his hands wrapped around a mug that no longer held warmth. He watched the condensation bead on the glass. One...
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