The Faded Guest
The cold does not come from the wind, though the iron town of Blackwater is a place where the wind has teeth. It comes from the floorboards, a specific, localized chill that rises to meet the sole of my boot and settles into the marrow of my shin. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a constable by trade and a ghost by reputation, and I have been holding Silas’s pocket watch for three years....
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