The Faded Ruin
Elias packed the crate. The jars were heavy. Glass against glass. A low hum in the air. Outside, the rain fell. It did not stop. It never stopped. The sky was a bruise. Purple and black. He looked at his hands. They shook. Not from cold. The cold was inside. The cold was old. He was sixty. The years had eaten him. They left no teeth. Only hunger. He lifted the crate. It was wood. Oak. Dark and...
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