The Wistful Silence
The pen in your hand trembles, a fine, involuntary shiver that has nothing to do with the cold seeping through the floorboards of the archive room. You are Elias, forty-two years old, and you have spent the last two decades ensuring that the iron gates of the Ashworth Estate lock with a sound like a heavy jaw closing. Your fingers are stained with the blue-black ink of the deed books, the same...
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