The Distant Nightmare
The transfer deed lay on the counter, the ink still wet and glistening like a bruise, and Elias Thorne held his pen aloft, waiting for the signature that would free him from forty-two years of grinding, smelling, and selling. Old Silas, the man who had taught Elias how to distill willow bark into something that could stop a migraine before it started, stood behind the counter with his arms...
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