The Wistful Ashes
The rain in Oakhaven did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a grey suspension that turned the brickwork of the municipal archive into a weeping face. Elias Vane wiped the moisture from his spectacles, his breath fogging the glass in the drafty corridor where the heating had failed again. He was thirty-two years old, a man who had spent the last decade cataloging the silence of other...
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