The Distant Metropolis
The house breathed a slow, rattling exhalation of coal dust and damp wool as Elara Vane stood before the kitchen table, her hands trembling not from the cold that seeped through the floorboards but from the terrible, vibrating certainty that had settled into her marrow like a shard of glass. It was a Tuesday in November, the kind of grey, industrial day where the sky hung low over the...
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