The Distant Clue
The fog at the border of Vellum does not smell of rain or rot, but of old paper and the metallic tang of forgotten coins. You step across the threshold, Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, a man whose name is already beginning to fray at the edges like a cheap hem, and you feel the cold fingers of the mist sliding into the crevices of your mind, picking out the memories you have hidden there....
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