The Faded Portrait
The champagne flute slipped from Elias Thorne’s fingers, shattering against the marble floor with a sound like a breaking bone. He did not look down. His eyes were fixed on the portrait in his other hand, the canvas trembling violently in his grip, the brushstrokes blurring into a smear of ochre and gray. The gala was in full swing, the string quartet playing a waltz that seemed to stretch the...
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