The Pale Fracture
The rain against the windowpane was a rhythmic drumming, a heartbeat for the house that had forgotten how to sleep. Elias stood by the heavy oak desk, his hands resting on the cold wood, fingers tracing the grain as if it were a topographic map of a place he could no longer visit. In the corner, a figure sat in a high-backed chair, swaying slightly, the motion slow and hypnotic like a metronome...
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