The Wistful Silence
The blood was bright against the grey wool of the handkerchief, a shocking red that did not match the dusty, ochre tones of the shop. Elias wiped his mouth, his hand trembling so violently that the cloth slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. He did not bend to pick it up. He watched it lie there, a small, dark stain spreading in the dust, and he thought of Clara. He thought of the...
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