The Faded Chronicle
The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended gray veil that turned the town of Oakhaven into a watercolor sketch left out in the damp, where the edges of the houses bled into the fog and the cobblestones shimmered with a wet, oily light that reflected nothing so clearly as the sky above. Thomas Whitmore stood on the top step of his porch, his arms crossed tightly over his chest,...
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