The Faded Dust
The spoon bends in your hand, a thin wire of silver yielding to the pressure of your thumb, and you watch the deformation spread like a crack in ice. It is the third one this week. You are sitting in the pantry of the Ashworth estate, a room that smells of damp wool and stale lavender, and the only light comes from the single, high window that looks out onto the barren courtyard. You are not...
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