The Wistful Saga
The rain against the window of the study did not fall; it hammered, a relentless, industrial percussion that seemed to vibrate through the very bones of the house. Elias Thorne sat in the high-backed chair, his hands resting on the arms of the leather seat, fingers interlaced, knuckles white. He was seventy-four, a man who had spent the better part of six decades curating the silence of other...
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