The Wistful Silence
The smell of burnt sugar and ozone hung in the air of the town of Oakhaven, a thick, cloying miasma that seemed to coat the lungs of every resident, a tangible manifestation of the industrial decay that had settled over the valley like a shroud, while Dr. Arthur Penhaligon, a man whose fingers were perpetually stained with the residue of alchemical experiments and whose eyes held the distant,...
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