The Faded Quadrant
The low hum that has always lived in the walls of Oakhaven is not a sound you hear with your ears but a pressure you feel in the teeth, a constant, subsonic thrumming that vibrates against the bone of your skull like a second, slower heartbeat. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and your hands are stained permanently with the black grease of clockwork, a testament to the decade you have...
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