The Wistful Silence
The winter solstice had arrived in Oakhaven like a debt come due, settling over the soot-stained mill town with a weight that pressed against the windows of Elias Thorne’s workshop. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of machine oil and the metallic tang of fear, while Elias sat hunched over his workbench, his fingers hovering over the shattered remains of a porcelain music box that had...
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