The Pale Dance
The rain in Oakhaven does not wash the streets clean; it merely presses the grime deeper into the cobblestones, a persistent, wet weight that settles into the marrow of anyone who walks the city’s long, decaying avenues. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old, a junior archivist whose hands are perpetually stained with the dust of the dead, and you stand now in the shadow of the Municipal...
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