The Faded Guest
"Did you check the cellar again?" The voice was Julian’s, thin and reedy, cutting through the stale air of the kitchen. Elara did not look up from the bowl of porridge. It was lumpy, the oats undercooked, proof of the fact that she had not slept in three days. The light in the room was grey, the color of wet wool, filtering through the grimy panes of the window above the sink. "I checked the...
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