The Distant Clue
The old oak table in the center of the community hall had been there for so long that its surface had worn into a smooth, pale bowl, a testament to the countless hands that had gripped it in anger, in prayer, and in the quiet, desperate hope of men who believed that if they just scratched hard enough, they could reach the truth buried beneath the veneer of polite society. Elias Thorne sat at...
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