The Wistful Witness
The dream was always the same, a soot-stained page where the face of his son, dead these twenty years, was written in the heavy, illegible scrawl of a man who had forgotten how to speak. Elias Thorne woke in the grey light of the industrial dawn, the taste of ash on his tongue, his hands trembling not from age but from the sheer physical weight of the memory that had pinned him to the bed. He...
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