The Distant Ghost
The letter from the bank lay open on the workbench, the red ink of the foreclosure date stark against the yellowing paper, a finality that Elias Thorne could not quite bring himself to sign away. He was forty-five, a structural engineer with hands that smelled of chalk dust and cold iron, and the commission to assess St. Jude’s Chapel in the Highlands was not a choice but a last, desperate...
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