The Distant Whispers
The rain had not stopped for three days. It fell in sheets against the window of the small, damp apartment on the fourth floor, a relentless gray curtain that blurred the streetlights below into smeared, weeping halos. Elias sat on the edge of the unmade bed, his hands clasped between his knees, the skin of his palms rough and dry. He did not look at the door. He did not need to. He knew the...
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