The Faded Dust
The trowel bit into the plaster, shedding a curl of grey dust that hung in the air for an impossible second before settling. Elias Thorne did not blink. He worked the putty into the crack in the north wall of St. Jude’s Hall, his movements precise, mechanical, the only sound in the vaulted silence a rhythmic scraping against limestone. He was fifty years old, a man of catalogues and carbon...
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