The Wistful Silence
The letter lay on the workbench, the ink still wet where Elias Thorne had signed it, the signature a jagged tear across the paper. It was a simple thing, a debt acknowledgment, three lines of legalistic prose that bound his hands and his future to the town of Oakhaven. He had walked four days to get there, his bag of tools banging against his hip, the rattle of the case a dull, rhythmic...
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