The Distant Ghost
The low, rhythmic thrum of the Ironbridge Foundry did not merely fill the air of the administrative offices; it vibrated in the marrow of Elias Thorne’s bones, a supernatural pressure that mirrored the three-year weight of his guilt. It was the winter of 1893, and the soot-choked corridors smelled of wet iron and old despair, yet Elias clutched the rusted iron key in his palm as if it were a...
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