The Faded Frontier
The chisel bit into the rotting oak of the mantelpiece, sending a fine spray of sawdust into Elias Thorne’s face, and he did not blink, for the dust was the only thing in the house that had stayed where he left it for the last three weeks. He was forty-two, a man who had mapped coastlines that no longer existed on charts, and now he mapped the slow decay of this Victorian manor in the hollow of...
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