The Distant Joke
The rain in Oakhaven does not fall so much as it seeps, a persistent, gray dampness that finds its way into the mortar of the brick, the joints of the wood, and the very lungs of those who live there, turning the air into a thick, medicinal broth that coats the throat and settles in the chest. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a man whose hands, once hardened by the desert wind and the...
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