The Distant Affair
The rain in Harrowgate did not fall so much as it settled, a persistent, gray mist that clung to the wool of coats and the stone of church walls. It was the kind of weather that made the air taste of iron and old leaves, a sensory constant that Elias Thorne had come to associate with the stagnation of his own mind. As the town’s sole constable, a title that carried more weight in name than in...
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