The Distant Metropolis
The wool had rotted for the fourth time that morning, a fact Elias Thorne noted with the detached precision of a man counting stitches in a torn hem. He stood in the center of Oakhaven’s market square, the silver clasp at his throat catching the weak October light, a cold weight against his sternum. It was a relic of his late wife, Margaret, and the only object in the town that did not turn to...
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