The Wistful Silence
The match struck with a sharp, sulfurous crack, the small orange flame trembling in the draft that slipped through the gap in the window frame, illuminating the yellowed edges of the paper in Elias Thorne’s hand. He was forty-two, a retired schoolteacher in Oakhaven, a village where the damp seemed to seep into the very bones of the houses and the people, and he intended to burn the final,...
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