The Distant Clue
The morning light in the apothecary of Elias Thorne did not so much illuminate the room as it seemed to suspend the dust motes in a static, amber haze, a silence so profound that the ticking of the brass clock on the mantelpiece sounded like the hammering of a distant heart. Elias, thirty-four years old and bearing the stooped grace of a man who had spent two decades bending over glass and...
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