The Wistful Silence
Elias. The name was not spoken in anger, but in the flat, procedural tone of a magistrate reading a list of debts, a sound that cut through the thick, yeasty air of the back room like a knife through cold tallow. Elias Thorne stood before the heavy oak table, his hands still dusted with flour, the white powder settling into the creases of his knuckles where his father’s hands had once rested....
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