The Wistful Voyage
The rain in Harrowgate did not fall so much as it existed, a persistent, grey curtain that blurred the edges of the world and softened the sharp, angular lines of the town into a monochromatic smear of slate and moss, and within this damp, suffocating quiet, Elias Thorne sat alone in the sparse, wood-paneled study of the local police station, his hands resting flat on the cold oak table, the...
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