The Faded Portrait
The dust in the hallway was thick enough to coat your fingers in a fine, grey powder as you wiped the surface of the mirror, your rag moving in slow, circular motions that did nothing to clear the image staring back at you. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and you have spent the last six months trying to make this house feel like something other than a tomb, but the air still smells...
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