The Pale Tower
The rain had not stopped for six days, turning the streets of Harrowgate into a mirror of bruised gray sky, and it was into this unbroken veil of water that I walked, leaving behind the only home I had ever known. I was twenty-eight years old, a man who had spent the last decade cataloging the invisible, the spectral, the things that should not exist but did, and yet I felt less like a scholar...
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