The Distant Ghost
The fog in Blackwater did not merely obscure; it pressed against the skin with a physical, wet weight, smelling of brine and rusted iron. Elias Thorne stood alone on the dock, his breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts that misted and vanished before they could reach the air. He was thirty-two years old, a clerk of modest ambition and rigid routine, and in his left hand he clutched a withered...
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