The Distant Threshold
The rain in London did not wash the city clean; it merely slicked the grime into a darker, more viscous sheen that clung to the cobblestones and the soot-blackened brickwork of the industrial districts, a persistent, oily film that defied the cleansing promise of the storm. Elias Thorne, a man whose hands had once been steady enough to thread a needle with surgical precision but who had since...
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