The Faded Paradox
You hold the matchbox in your left hand, the cardboard soft and worn from the friction of your thumb, a small rectangle of potential fire that costs three pence and could cost you everything else. It is November in the manor house, and the damp has found the cracks in the plaster, settling into the grain of the oak floorboards with a slow, wet persistence that chills the marrow. You are Elias...
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