The Distant Whispers
The key was cold, a heavy brass thing with a bite to it, and it sat in my palm like a stone from a riverbed. I turned it over, feeling the wear on the teeth, before I slid it into the lock of the east wing. The mechanism groaned, a sound that felt less like metal and more like a joint popping, and the door swung inward on hinges that had not seen oil in decades. I was Elias Thorne, a federal...
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