The Wistful Silence
The air in the cellar was thick, a living thing that pressed against your chest, tasting of damp earth, old wax, and the metallic tang of iron. You sat at the head of the long oak table, your hands resting on the polished surface, feeling the cold seep into your palms, a cold that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the weight of the silence that had settled over...
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