The Faded Attic
The water was black, and it smelled of rot. Elias Thorne stood waist-deep in the cellar of his timber merchant’s shop, the mud slick against his trousers, the cold seeping into his bones with a persistence that felt less like temperature and more like a judgment. Above him, through the floorboards, he could hear the muffled thump of the village feast, the fiddle playing a tune he recognized...
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