The Pale Dance
The brass pocket watch sat on the mahogany desk, its lid closed, ticking with a mechanical precision that seemed to mock the chaotic, dust-moted air of the study, a small, indestructible heart beating in the silence of a house that had forgotten how to breathe. Colonel Elias Thorne stood before the large, leaded window, his back rigid, the wool of his tunic stiff with the sweat of a man who has...
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