The Faded Paradox
The house stood at the end of the lane like a broken tooth, its white clapboards peeling in long, sun-bleached strips that resembled the skin of an old man. It was a place that had seen too many winters, the kind of structure that seemed to absorb the dampness of the moors rather than repel it. Elias Thorne stood before the heavy oak door, his hand resting on the cold iron handle. He was a man...
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