The Distant Crown
The fog did not roll in; it seeped, a grey and omnipresent damp that settled into the marrow of the house before the morning sun even dared to touch the glass. Elias Thorne stood at the kitchen window, his reflection a pale, distorted smudge against the frosted pane, watching the garden where the roses had long since bled out their color. He was a man who managed accounts for a textile firm in...
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