The Distant Clue
The iron key had grown warm in my palm, a living thing pulsing against the cold skin of my hand, and I could feel the weight of every lock I had ever picked, every door I had ever forced open, pressing down on my wrist like a physical burden of rust and regret. We sat in the parlor of the Whitmore estate, a house that seemed to breathe with the damp breath of centuries, the wallpaper peeling in...
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