The Faded Portrait
The portrait of Dr. Aris was heavy, not in its physical mass, but in the sheer density of the silence it carried, a small rectangle of varnished canvas that Elias Thorne held against his chest like a shield as he stepped off the bus in Oakhaven. The air here tasted of salt and diesel, a sharp contrast to the dry, paper-dust smell of the archives he had fled, and the town itself seemed to shrink...
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