The Distant Ghost
The rain in Harrowgate did not wash things clean; it merely made the grime slicker, turning the soot-stained brickwork of the old textile district into a mirror for a sky that refused to break. Elias Thorne sat at his desk in the basement office of the Archival Preservation Trust, a room that smelled permanently of decaying paper and the metallic tang of wet wool. He was a man composed of right...
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