The Distant Wound
The fog that rolled off the River Trent did not merely obscure the world; it erased it, thick and gray as wet wool, swallowing the soot-stained brickwork of the mill district until only the rhythmic, mechanical thumping of the looms remained, a sound like the heart of a dying beast trying to beat itself back into life. It was in this suffocating, industrial twilight that Elias Thorne walked,...
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