The Distant Metropolis
The fog rolled in off the harbor, thick and gray, smelling of brine and rotting kelp. It swallowed the village of Oakhaven whole, turning the cobblestones slick and the stone houses into silent, breathing things. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the tide pool, his boots sinking into the wet sand. He was an old man now, his spine curved like a question mark, his hands mapped with the white...
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