The Faded Paradox
The rain had been falling for three days, a steady, rhythmic drumming against the slate roof of the manor that sounded less like weather and more like a heartbeat, a slow and failing pulse that seemed to sync with the throb behind Thomas Ashworth’s temples. He sat in the library, a room that smelled of damp wool, old paper, and the faint, sweet rot of flowers that had been left to die in a vase...
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