The Distant Promise
The tapping started at 3:14 a.m., a rhythmic, hollow knock against the drywall that sounded less like water and more like a fingernail testing the integrity of a coffin. Elias Thorne lay in the narrow cot of his temporary quarters, the mattress springs groaning under his weight, and stared at the ceiling where a water stain had shaped itself into the rough outline of a hand. He was thirty-four...
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