The Wistful Atlas
The gas lamps in Harrowgate flickered with a nervous, sputtering rhythm that night, as if the town itself were holding its breath against a coming storm. I stood on the corner of Mill Street, my uniform immaculate, my hands clasped behind my back to hide the trembling in my fingers. To anyone passing, I was merely Sergeant Elias Thorne, the newly appointed lawman of a district that had grown...
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