The Faded Chronicle
The hand trembled as it brushed the page, the ink smearing into a grey smear that looked less like writing and more like the residue of a burnt candle. Elias Thorne sat in the blue half-light of his office, the radiator ticking a rhythmic, metallic heartbeat against the cold November air, and watched the letters of his own signature dissolve into ash on the tip of his finger. He pulled his hand...
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