The Distant Promise
The brass key in Elias Vane’s palm was cold, not with the chill of the November air that swept through the open windows of his workshop, but with a deeper, more pervasive coldness, a lethargy that seemed to seep from the metal itself into his trembling fingers, a sensation that mirrored the slow, creeping paralysis that had begun to claim his left hand, a disease the doctors called progressive...
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