The Faded Apartment
The ledger weighed four pounds, three ounces, and a specific kind of silence that Elias Thorne had carried in his chest for twelve hours. He counted the pages again, his thumb dragging across the damp, fibrous edges, ensuring that every entry from the last quarter of the harvest tax was present, accounted for, and dry. The stone corridor of the King’s administrative hall smelled of wet wool and...
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