The Faded Photograph
The fog in Oakhaven did not roll in from the harbor so much as it seeped up from the cobblestones, a damp, grey exhalation that settled into the wool of coats and the wood of doorframes, carrying with it the faint, metallic taste of old grief. Elias Thorne stood before the heavy oak doors of the Guild of Order, his fingers white-knuckled around the handle of his leather satchel, the hide worn...
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