The Distant Whispers
The silver brooch sat in my palm, heavy as a stone from the riverbed, its filigree worn smooth by twenty years of my thumb rubbing against it. I held it up to the flickering gaslight of the boiler room, watching the metal catch the glow, and for a moment, the tremor in my hands stilled, replaced by the cold, steady weight of the thing itself. It was a mourning piece, a cluster of black onyx...
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