The Faded Paradox
The fog in Oakhaven did not roll in so much as it seeped, a gray, damp breath that settled into the joints of the old houses and the pores of the people who lived in them. Elias Thorne stood by the window of his shop, *Thorne’s Restorations*, watching the mist erase the streetlamp on the corner. He was a man of precise hands and quiet habits, a restorer of antique clocks whose gears and springs...
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