The Faded Photograph
The fog did not roll in so much as it grew, a slow exhalation of the marshland itself, swallowing the edges of the world until only the wooden frame of Elias Thorne’s workshop remained visible. It was a time before clocks were common, before the mechanical tick of industry had shattered the long, unbroken silence of the seasons. Here, in the hollowed-out shell of a shipwreck on the coast of the...
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