The Wistful Incense
The rain in Oakhaven did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the cobblestones into mirrors that reflected the soot of the chimney stacks. Sergeant Elias Thorne stood at the threshold of the police station, his collar popped against the chill, watching the town dissolve into a grey mist. He was a man carved from the same granite as the cliffs beyond the harbor,...
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