The Pale Verdict
The mist that rolled in from the harbor every evening did not merely obscure the view of the city; it actively participated in the erasure of it, a thick, grey wool that wrapped around the stone pillars of the Customs House and softened the hard edges of the men who worked there, turning their sharp features into blurred smudges of charcoal and ash. Elias Thorne stood at his desk, a small...
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