The Faded Chronicle
October 14, 1998 My Dearest Clara, I am writing to you from the station at Oakhaven, a place that seems to exist only in the peripheral vision of the map, where the rails end not in a city but in a fog that tastes of wet slate and old iron. I have taken the position as cataloguer for the estate of Silas Vane, the reclusive archivist who died three weeks ago, and I must confess that the journey...
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