The Distant Clue
The dream is always the same. You are standing in a room made of glass, and the walls are sweating. A silver cufflink hangs in the air before you, humming a low, resonant note that you feel in your teeth. It is warm. It is alive. You wake with the taste of copper on your tongue, the air in your apartment thick with the smell of old paper and damp wool. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old,...
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