The Temperature of Release
Jeremiah Van Horn had not slept in seventy-two hours when the phase change began. He stood at the window of his corner office on the twenty-first floor of the Van Horn Building, looking down at Broadway where the gaslights flickered against the November fog of 1886, and he felt something inside him shift—not break, not crack, but shift with the slow, tectonic inevitability of ice turning to...
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