The Distant Ghost
Your hand closes around the brass handle of the filing cabinet, the metal slick with condensation and a film of black slime that smells of old pennies. The water is rising, a slow, muscular tide that laps against the baseboards of the basement in the condemned Harrowgate Estate, swallowing the lower shelves of the Ministry of Reclamation’s storage unit. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, and you...
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