The Faded Portrait
Thorne, you are blocking the light again. I have been sitting in the amber glow of the reading lamp for three hours, my fingers numb from the cold that seeps through the floorboards of the University of St. Jude archive, when Professor Halloway’s shadow fell across the desk. He did not raise his voice; he rarely did. He simply stood there, his tweed jacket smelling of pipe tobacco and stale...
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