The Wistful Silence
The wind tore at his coat. It was a cold, technical wind. It had a vector. It had a force. Elias felt the pressure on his chest. It was measurable. He knew the formula. He stood in the middle of the heath. The ground was hard. The stones were gray. His boots were wet. He looked at his watch. The second hand moved. Tick. Tick. Tick. He was late. He was always late. He was a man of precision. Or...
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