The Wistful Silence
The fog did not drift into Oakhaven; it seeped, like black water rising through the floorboards of the old town. Elias Thorne stood in the cellar, the damp cold biting through his wool trousers, and watched the grey mist curl around the base of the stone steps. In his hand, he gripped the vial of black sap, its surface trembling with a life that had no source. He was forty-two, a junior...
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