The Pale Altar
The review board sat in a semicircle of molded plastic chairs, their faces illuminated by the humming fluorescent tubes above. Dr. Elias Thorne sat at the apex. He held the manuscript. It was thin. A booklet, really, bound in rough gray cardstock. The paper felt dry between his fingers, like dead skin. He had waited for this moment for six years. Six years of silence. Six years of explaining,...
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