The Wistful Silence
The house smelled of damp wool and the faint, sweet rot of overripe pears, a scent that had settled into the plaster and the floorboards over the forty years since Elias Thorne had first moved in with his wife, Martha, and their young daughter, Clara. Now, the house was empty save for Elias, who lay in the bedroom that had once been Clara’s nursery, watching the dust motes dance in the single...
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