The Faded Sutra
The convoy of articulated lorries moved across the desolate expanse of the North Sea Highway with the sluggish, inevitable grace of a leviathan surfacing from a briny abyss, its tires grinding against the asphalt in a rhythmic, mechanical thrum that vibrated up through the chassis, into the cabin, and finally into the marrow of the bones of Elias Thorne, who sat at the wheel with his hands...
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