The Wistful Skyline
The house began to bleed on a Tuesday, or perhaps it was a Wednesday, for time had lost its sharp edges in the valley of Ashworth Creek, and the rain had been falling for so many days that the sky and the earth had merged into a single, weeping grey membrane. Elias Thorne, a man whose hands were permanently stained with the tannin of oak and the dust of sandalwood, stood in the center of the...
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