The Distant Clue
The steam from the kettle hisses, a thin, high-pitched shriek that cuts through the heavy silence of the drawing room, and you are standing there, holding the porcelain cup as if it were a grenade, your knuckles white against the delicate floral pattern. It is 1893, and the air in the Whitmore estate smells of coal dust, old paper, and the peculiar, metallic tang of ozone that seems to gather...
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