The Wistful Show
The rain had stopped, leaving the air in the valley thick with the scent of wet limestone and dying leaves. Elias Thorne stood on the porch of the house he was about to leave, his hand resting on the rough wood of the railing. He was a man of sixty winters, his face a map of deep lines carved by wind and worry, his hands still stained with the dust of plaster and the dark residue of old wood....
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