The Wistful Mountain
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended grey curtain over the streets of New Haven, turning the world into a watercolor of damp slate and rust. Elias Thorne walked with the steady, mechanical precision of a man who had long ago surrendered to the rhythm of his own gait. He was a man of the Department of Internal Security, a title that sounded bureaucratic but carried the weight of...
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