The Distant Threshold
The clock tower did not fall; it crumbled. One moment, the stone spire of Harrowgate’s town hall stood as it had for a century, a silent sentinel over the market square. The next, a groan of tortured masonry split the morning air, and the top third of the structure slid inward, collapsing into a cloud of dust and debris that swallowed the lower floors. Elias Thorne, fifty-two and an archivist...
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