The Wistful Silence

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2026-08-24 07:58:50 -

The banquet hall of St. Jude’s Asylum was a cavern of dust and decaying velvet, where the air hung thick with the scent of stale beer and damp wool. Elias Thorne sat at the far end of the long table, his fingers wrapped tightly around a cracked pocket watch, its glass face spiderwebbed from a fall three winters past. He was forty-two, a man whose face had been worn smooth by the friction of...

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