The Distant Machine
The letters arrived on a Tuesday, three of them, smelling of damp wool and the metallic tang of the river that bordered Harrowgate. They were from Elias Thorne, the town’s only detective, a man who had spent the last decade chasing ghosts through the fog and finding only his own reflection staring back, hollow-eyed and tired. Harrowgate was a place where time did not move so much as it pooled,...
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