The Distant Whispers
The rain hits the cobblestones with a sound like tearing silk. You stand in the alley behind the foundry, the smell of iron and wet ash thick in your throat. It is 1893, or perhaps 1902. Time has begun to leak out of the city, pooling in the gutters. You are Sergeant Elias Thorne. You have been a man for twenty years, but tonight you feel like a ghost wearing a uniform. Your hand rests on the...
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