The Faded River
The ink was still wet when the first drop of rain hit the windowpane. It fell like a tear, silent and heavy, tracing a path down the glass. Elias Vane did not look up. His pen moved with the mechanical precision of a metronome, scratching names onto parchment. The room smelled of lavender and decay. Outside, the storm brewed in the belly of the night. Inside, the air was still. Too still. Elias...
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