The Wistful Witness
The great hall of the Whitmore estate did not sleep. It breathed. To ten-year-old Elias, the building was not a structure of stone and timber but a living organism, a vast, cold beast with lungs made of drawbridges and heartbeats in the floorboards. He sat on the edge of the marble hearth, his knees drawn to his chest, watching the fire die. Outside, the rain lashed the windowpanes, a...
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