The Wistful Dinner
The stone floor of the town hall hummed. It was a low, subsonic thrum that Elias Thorne felt in his molars before he heard it in his ears. He stood in the center of the assembly room, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the dust motes dance in the shafts of grey winter light. The vibration was not a sound, exactly; it was a pressure, a physical insistence that the building was alive and...
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