The Wistful Witness
The silver locket weighed forty-two grains, a precise and cold weight that Elara Vance measured against the scale in her pocket. It was the only asset left in the Vance estate, a small, tarnished oval that had belonged to her mother before the Gray Rot took her. Elara was thirty years old, a textile inspector for the firm of Halloway & Sons, and her left hand was already half-ash. The skin...
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