The Faded Photograph
The basement of the Vane estate did not smell of damp, as one might expect from a subterranean chamber, but of stale tobacco and the sharp, metallic tang of old brass, a scent that had seeped so deeply into the plaster and the floorboards that Elias could taste it on the back of his tongue even when he was asleep. It was a windowless room, a concrete box buried beneath the manicured lawns of...
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