The Wistful Silence
The list was pinned to the door of the apothecary with a rusted nail, the paper yellowed and soft as old skin. It detailed the debts of the Holloway estate, a column of numbers that looked less like arithmetic and more like a tally of graves. Elias read it three times, his finger tracing the ink until the paper felt slick under his touch. He was twelve, small for his age, with hands that were...
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