The Wistful Letter
October 14, 1893 The fog in Blackwood does not roll in; it settles, a heavy, grey wool that chokes the lungs and erases the horizon. I am Silas Thorne, thirty-two, a constable with twelve years of service and a name that is currently rotting in the mouths of the men I serve. I want my pension, I want my name cleared, and I want to prove that the "madman" who killed my sister, Elara, was...
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