The Faded Dust
The warehouse stood at the edge of the Thames like a held breath, all corrugated iron and forgotten purpose. Clara Hargreave had inherited it from her uncle—Julian's uncle, really, though the man had been more like a second father than blood. He'd left her the keys in a velvet envelope dated three weeks before his death, with a single line written in his shaky hand: "Find what I buried in the...
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