The Faded Chronicle
The rain did not fall; it hung in the air, a thick, gray curtain that smelled of wet slate and old iron. Inside the house, the silence was not empty but heavy, a physical weight that pressed against the eardrums. Margot stood in the center of the dining room, her hands trembling so violently she could barely hold the silver tray. On it lay a single bowl of soup, the steam rising in thin,...
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