The Faded Dust
The oak tree in the center of the square had begun to shed its leaves in November, a slow, rustling hemorrhage of brown against the gray sky. Elias Thorne stood at the curb, his hand resting on the cold iron of his service revolver, not because he expected a threat, but because the weight of it was the only thing that felt solid in a city that had become increasingly porous. He was a man who...
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