The Wistful Witness
The iron key hung on a chain around the neck of Elias Thorne, a weight that seemed to anchor him to the floor of the cellar, though his feet were bare and cold against the stone. It was a heavy, blackened thing, its teeth worn smooth by generations of hands, and it was the only object in the entire tower of Saint Jude’s that the monks allowed him to touch. For thirty years, Elias had been the...
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