The Faded Photograph
The mist clung to the valley floor like a shroud that refused to be lifted. It was a cold, wet thing, seeping into the bones, settling in the joints. Elias Thorne stood at the window of the manor house, his breath forming small, fleeting ghosts against the glass. He had been here for three weeks. Three weeks since the ship, since the storm, since the silence of the sea had been replaced by the...
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