The Wistful Silence
The tin roof of the community hall in the village of Oakhaven did not merely leak when the November rains began their relentless, drumming siege against the shingles; it wept, a steady, cold hemorrhage of rust-colored water that pooled on the warped floorboards and seeped into the hem of Elias Thorne’s trousers, a slow, wet erosion of his dignity that mirrored the gradual, invisible decay of...
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