The Pale Echo
The thumb of Elias Thorne pressed hard against the jagged edge of the porcelain shard, bleeding a thin, dark line that smeared the white surface. He sat in the drafty silence of his study, the air smelling of damp wool and stale tobacco, the only sound the rhythmic ticking of a clock that had lost its spring. On the desk before him lay a eviction notice, the paper crisp and cold, listing a debt...
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