The Distant Affair
The jar sat on the windowsill, a thick cylinder of glass holding a substance that seemed to breathe with the slow, rhythmic pulse of the house. It was not a preserve of fruit or a cure for a common ailment, but something darker, denser, a viscous amber that caught the pale, wintry light filtering through the frosted panes and held it there, refusing to let it pass. Elias Thorne had carried it...
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