The Distant Affair
The ink was moving again. Elias Thorne stared at the blot spreading across the page. It defied gravity, creeping up the fibers like a slow tide. He set the pen down. The black smear stopped. He picked it up. It crept. "Stop it," he whispered. His voice sounded thin in the empty room. The clock on the mantel ticked with a heavy, mechanical insistence. Tick. Tick. Tick. Each second was a coin...
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