The Faded Dust
The chain was cold, biting into the meat of Elias Thorne’s thumb as he worked the latch of the boiler door. It was a small, silver thing, cracked down the center, holding a miniature portrait of his sister, Martha, who had died of the consumption three weeks prior. Elias was thirty-two, though the dark circles under his eyes and the stiffness in his lower back made him seem older. He needed the...
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