The Distant Clue
The rain in Oakhaven does not wash things clean; it merely saturates them, pressing the dampness into the brickwork of the houses and the marrow of the people who live within them, creating a persistent, humid fog that clings to the skin long after the clouds have broken. I am Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, an archivist by trade and a prisoner by circumstance, and I write this entry on the...
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