The Wistful Silence
The rain did not fall so much as it pressed against the windows of the constabulary house, a relentless, gray weight that seemed to seep into the bones of Elias Thorne, waking him from a dream where the earth was a wet, heavy blanket suffocating Clara, whose face was pressed against the soil, her mouth open in a silent scream that he could hear only as a vibration in his own teeth. He sat up,...
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