The Wistful Saga
The oak handle was cold, slick with a film of dust that felt like skin, and I held it for a long time before I turned the key. The scratch was there again, a thin, pale line running vertically down the wood, deeper than it had been yesterday, as if something with a sharp, patient claw had tested the grain. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two, a retired police captain living in a house that is slowly...
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