The Wistful Silence
The trunk latch clicked shut with a sound like a bone snapping. Elias Thorne stood in the drafty hallway of the Glasgow train station, his fingers wrapped around the handle, trembling so violently the brass groaned under the pressure. He was forty-two, and the palsy that had started in his left hand six months ago now had a firm grip on his right, turning simple tasks into acts of war. He...
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