The Distant Ghost
The rain hits the cobblestones with a sound like gravel thrown against a tin roof. You are Elias Thorne, and your boots are soaked through, the leather heavy with the cold sludge of the industrial capital. In your pocket, the black iron key bites into your thigh with every step, a constant, dull ache that you have mistaken for conscience for three years. You are walking toward the High Court, a...
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