The Pale Tale
The rain in Ashworth was not water but a thin, metallic mist that settled on the cobblestones of the village square like a layer of powdered tin, and it was into this grey, industrial haze that Elias Thorne walked, his breath visible in the cold November air of 1912, carrying a leather satchel that held nothing but his tools and the weight of his debt. He was thirty-four years old, a clockmaker...
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