The Faded Dust
The wind is screaming. You know it is. It rattles the windowpanes of the study, a dry, hollow sound like dry bones clicking together in a jar. You are not afraid of the wind. You are afraid of what it carries. You are holding the book. It is bound in blue cloth, soft now, worn thin by years of use. Your hands are shaking. Not from cold. From the weight of it. "Put it down, Elias." The voice...
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