The Faded Portrait
The glass vial sat in the palm of your left hand, cold as a river stone, while your right hand trembled violently against the grain of the oak desk. You were Elias Thorne, a constable of thirty-four years, and the only thing in the world that mattered was the sound of Clara’s breathing, a shallow, rattling wheeze that had replaced the rhythm of her sleep three weeks prior. You had found the...
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