The Pale Shadows
The soup was cold, a congealed gray sludge in the bottom of the bowl, and I watched the fat separate from the broth in slow, oily rings that looked suspiciously like the ripples made by a stone thrown into a stagnant pond, a visual metaphor for the decay that had been settling into the marrow of our town since the day the new director, Mr. Alistair Thorne, arrived with his tailored suits and...
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