The Pale Verdict
The fog in Oakhaven was not merely weather but a physical substance, a grey wool that choked the lungs and blurred the edges of the iron-bridged streets, and I walked through it with the cold weight of five hundred pounds in my mind and a pocket watch against my thigh that had not ticked since I stepped off the train. I was Elias Thorne, a clockmaker from the quiet hills of the west, and I had...
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