The Pale Verdict
The candle gutters. You watch the flame. It is a yellow eye. It blinks. You are alone. The house holds its breath. Dust motes dance in the beam. They are dead things. They drift. They settle. You are Elias Thorne. You are a scholar of the old texts. You sit in the chair by the window. The glass is cold against your hand. You have no coat. You have no money. You have only this room. And her....
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