The Pale Echo
The turkey, roasted to a mahogany glaze that glistened under the chandelier’s unforgiving light, sat at the center of the table like a sacrificial offering to a god that no longer answered prayers, surrounded by the heavy silence of the Whitmore family, where the clinking of silverware against porcelain was the only sound loud enough to mask the tremor in Elias’s hands. Twelve years old and...
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