The Wistful Silence
The pencil snapped with a sound like a small bone breaking, and Elias Thorne watched the graphite shatter against the heavy oak desk, the jagged pieces rolling across the blueprints of the house he was trying to sell. The attic air was thin and cold, smelling of dry rot and the old wool of the rugs that had been stored here for thirty years. He was fifty-two, an architect who had spent three...
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