The Faded Portrait
The varnish had been peeling in long, sickly strips for six years, ever since the roof leak in ’87, and Elias Thorne counted the layers of grime like a miser counting coins in a dark room, each layer a year of neglect, a year of the Blackwood estate rotting from the inside out. He stood alone in the east wing, the air thin and cold, smelling of wet plaster and the stale, sweet decay of old oil...
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