The Wistful Silence
The water had already seeped through the plaster, leaving a bruise on the ceiling that pulsed in time with Elias’s heartbeat. He sat on the edge of his narrow bed, watching the stain expand, a dark eye staring back at him from the damp wood above. Fifty-two years old, and the house was eating him alive. The tremor in his left hand was no longer a nuisance; it was a vibration that rattled his...
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