The Wistful Saga
The fog in Oakhaven did not roll in; it settled, heavy and gray, pressing against the windows of the deputy sheriff’s office like a living thing seeking entry. Elias Thorne sat behind his desk, the wood worn smooth by twenty years of his elbows, staring at the rusted iron gate of the Vane Cannery visible through the glass. The metal was corroded into a lattice of orange decay, a perfect mirror...
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