The Faded Frequency
The ink on the page had dried to the consistency of dried blood, a deep, arterial maroon that seeped into the fibers of the parchment with a permanence that seemed to defy the very nature of the medium, and as I, Elias Thorne, sat in the dim, dust-moted silence of my study, the air thick with the scent of old paper and the faint, metallic tang of my own exhaustion, I realized that the house...
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