The Wistful Silence

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2026-08-24 03:24:51 -

The banquet hall of the Oakhaven Ironworks smelled of roasted lamb and rust. It was the annual solstice feast, a grotesque celebration of the mill’s survival, and Elias Thorne stood in the shadow of the main pillar, his hand buried in his coat pocket, fingers wrapped around the cold, rusted face of his father’s pocket watch. The air was thick with the smoke of a hundred candles and the heavier...

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