The Wistful Asylum
The fog in Oakhaven did not merely hang in the air; it possessed a weight, a viscous quality that pressed against the windowpanes of Elias Thorne’s modest room above the chandler’s shop on Weaver’s Lane, turning the dawn into a bruised and indistinct smear of grey. Elias woke not to the sound of the city stirring, but to a pain so sharp and localized in his left temple that it felt as though a...
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