The Distant Affair
The ink in the nib of my pen was thick, dark, and warm, pooling on the tip of the steel before it touched the paper. It was a strange heat, like holding a live coal, and it seeped into the fibers of the resignation letter I had drafted for the Chief Constable. I am Elias Thorne, fifty years old, and my hands have trembled for three winters now, a palsy that turns my writing into a series of...
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