The Distant Metropolis
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray weeping that turned the cobblestones of the old manor into a slick, dark mirror reflecting the bruised sky above. Elias Thorne stood by the window of the library, his reflection a ghostly overlay on the glass, watching the water trace its slow, inevitable path down the pane. He was a man of books and quiet routines, a scholar of...
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