The Golden Farce
The fog does not drift through the streets of Oakhaven; it stands. It is a grey wall, thick as wool, pressing against your face with the cold weight of a wet shroud. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a constable with a badge that feels heavy and useless on your chest. You have walked these same cobblestones for fifteen years, counting the cracks in the pavement, memorizing the slant of...
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