The Wistful Throne
The rain in Oakhaven did not fall so much as it settled, a grey, persistent mist that clung to the eaves of the Victorian houses and dampened the cobblestones of the main street. Elias Thorne, forty-two, stood in the back of the municipal archive, his hands trembling not from the cold but from the weight of the object wrapped in oilcloth beneath his arm. He had spent the last three nights...
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