The Faded River
The porcelain cup sat in the center of the mahogany table, a small, white island in a sea of dark wood, and it held a silence that was louder than the shouting that had just ceased. Margaret Holloway stared at it, her hands trembling not from fear, but from a profound, physical exhaustion that seemed to have settled into her very bones, settling like silt in a stagnant pool. The room was vast,...
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