The Wistful Silence
The mortar in Edward’s hands crumbled not from the weight of the stone he was trying to lift, but from the sheer, crushing inadequacy of his own flesh against the ancient, indifferent masonry of the Whitmore estate, a structure that had outlasted three centuries of kings and plagues and seemed to view the living merely as temporary tenants whose breath fogged the cold glass of its windows, and...
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