The Faded Apartment
The rain against the window of the fourth-floor apartment in Chicago was not a sound but a presence, a wet, gray hand pressing against the glass. Elias Thorne sat at the kitchen table, his spine rigid against the back of the chair, his hands resting on the laminate surface. They were still hands, scarred at the knuckles and mapped with the topography of old violence, but they were still. He...
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