The Distant Wound
The ink on the ledger page was still wet, a dark, viscous smear that Elias Thorne watched with the detached curiosity of a man observing a stain on his own shirt. He was thirty-two years old, a junior archivist in the Department of Civic Harmony, and he had spent the last decade believing that the fog rolling into Oakhaven was a natural meteorological event, a quirk of the industrial atmosphere...
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