The Distant Clue
The dream was not a vision of light or of the afterlife but a recurring, suffocating inventory of concrete, a gray and granular substance that tasted of iron and old rain on the back of Elias Thorne’s tongue as he woke, the sheets tangled around his legs like the roots of a dead oak, his body rigid with the phantom weight of a rifle that was no longer his but had been pressed into his hands by...
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