The Distant Clue
The fog does not drift into the basement of the Blackwood Estate; it seeps, a slow and viscous exhalation from the cracked foundation stones, wrapping around your ankles like the cold, damp hands of the dead. You are nineteen, Elias Thorne, an archivist by inheritance and by debt, and the air here tastes of iron and old paper, a flavor that has long since replaced the taste of your own breath....
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