The Wistful Ashes
The rain against the windowpane did not fall so much as it smeared, a continuous, weeping gray that blurred the boundary between the interior of the house and the dissolving world outside, creating a sensation of being sealed within a jar of wet earth. Elias Thorne sat in the high-backed chair that had belonged to his father, and before him lay the open ledger, its pages swollen with the...
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