The Faded Dust
"You are still there." The voice came from the dark. It was not a shout. It was a flat, technical observation. You felt the weight of the air in the room, thick with the scent of ozone and old paper. You stood by the window. The glass was cold against your cheek. You did not move. You knew the man in the chair. Everyone in the valley knew him. Elias Thorne. The architect of the new factory. The...
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