The Distant Clue
The pen hovered over the paper, the nib dry, scratching a faint, useless line against the heavy stock. Outside, the wind did not howl; it screamed, a low, continuous moan that rattled the windowpanes of Blackwood Manor until the glass hummed in sympathy. Elias Thorne wrote the date: November 14th. He stared at the ink, a black pool spreading on the tip of the nib. He was forty-two years old, a...
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