The Distant Promise
You count the seconds between the tick of the clock and the creak of the floorboards. Twelve seconds. You have been counting them for three hours, ever since Mrs. Gable barred the door to the library with a bolt of iron that looked older than the house itself. The air in the Blackwood Estate smells of damp wool and old paper, a scent that settles in the throat like ash. You are Elias Thorne,...
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