The Wistful Show
The fog does not roll into the city of Vael; it seeps out of the cobblestones, a grey, iron-rich mist that tastes of old pennies and dried blood, settling into the crevices of your skin and the hollows of your bones. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a debt-collector whose life has been reduced to the arithmetic of loss, and your left hand, the one you have used for decades to sign...
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