The Wistful Dinner
The rain against the window of the Oakhaven Archive did not wash the world clean; it merely slicked the grime into the glass, turning the streetlamps into smeared, yellow bruises that pulsed with a sickly, rhythmic light. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and you have spent the last decade tracing the spectral outline of Arthur Penhaligon, a man whose name in the town’s oral history...
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