The Wistful Silence
The brass pestle was heavy in Elias Thorne’s palm, cold and slick with the damp condensation that rose from the cellar floor, and he ground the dried valerian root with a rhythmic, punishing force that sent a dull ache through his knuckles, a pain he had long ago learned to ignore in favor of the technical precision required to reduce the herb to a fine, grey powder that smelled of wet earth...
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