The Wistful Show
The hand shook. It was a small tremor, barely visible, like a leaf caught in a wire. Silas watched it from across the table. He did not touch his coffee. The liquid was black and still. The house was old. The walls breathed. Dust motes danced in the single beam of light that cut through the window. They moved slowly. They hung there, suspended in the stale air. Silas was a man of the law. Or he...
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