Chapter 4: The Breaking Point
The Harding Farm. Early February, 1885.
The silence before dawn wasn't peaceful; it was heavy. A physical weight, pressing down on the farmhouse roof like a wet wool blanket, muffling the world. It was the kind of quiet that felt staged, a held breath before a scream. The cold had teeth this morning, biting through the chinks in the log walls, a dry, predatory cold that sought the marrow.
Elias Sawyer sat in the kitchen, a stoneware cup of cold