The Faded Attic
The rain hammered against the slate roof of the Old Mill, a rhythmic, violent drumming that seemed to vibrate in the very bones of the stone walls. Elias Thorne, a man whose hands were permanently stained with the tannins of oak and the dust of centuries, stood in the center of the circular chamber, his back to the door. He was not alone. Across the room, leaning against a pillar of moss-eaten...
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