The Pale Dance
The silence in Elias Thorne’s shop was not empty; it was heavy, a physical weight that pressed against his eardrums and settled in the hollow of his chest. It was a Tuesday in November, the air in Oakhaven crisp enough to bite the skin, and the clock on the wall behind the counter had stopped at 4:12 three days prior, refusing to tick, refusing to move, as if time itself had decided to hold its...
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