The Faded Photograph
The tea was already cold when Elias set the cup down, the porcelain clinking against the saucer with a sound that seemed too loud in the silence of the cottage, a small, sharp noise that cut through the thick, iron-tasting air of the room. He looked at Clara, who sat by the hearth with her hands folded in her lap, her face pale and still as a winter pond, and he felt the weight of the mud still...
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