The Wistful Silence
The cellar of the Harrow house was a place of damp rot and whispered secrets, where the air hung heavy with the scent of wet earth and decaying wood, and Elias Thorne, with his hands stained black by the soil and his breath ragged in the stillness, crouched beside the old oak root system that had burst through the flagstones three weeks prior, knowing with a certainty that felt like a physical...
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