The Distant Ghost
Thorne. The name hung in the air, spoken by the wind itself, or perhaps by the memory of a man who had died three winters ago in a room that no longer existed. Elias Thorne stood on the porch of the Victorian estate, his hand wrapped around a deed that felt like a dead bird in his grip. He was forty-two, retired from structural engineering after a heart scare that had left him with a new, quiet...
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