The Wistful Silence
The glass vial in Elias Thorne’s hand was cold, heavier than it had been an hour ago, and the stopper fit with a resistance that felt less like friction and more like a refusal. He held it up to the single candle that burned in the archive’s north alcove, the flame trembling in a draught that came from no visible source, and watched the ink settle at the bottom, a dark sludge that defied the...
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