The Pale Echo
The glass is cold in your hand, and it is the only thing in the house that does not tremble. You stand in the center of the drawing room, the floorboards groaning softly beneath your boots, listening to the silence that has settled over the Whitmore estate like a heavy, wet snow. It is not a true silence, of course. It is the holding of breath, the suspension of the air before the strike. You...
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