The Pale Door
The coat hung on the back of the chair. It was a heavy thing, wool and felt, dyed a deep, bruised purple that had faded to the color of dried blood. Elias noticed it first. He was not supposed to be there. The room was a place of quiet, of dust motes dancing in shafts of pale light, a space that existed just off the edge of the waking world. Yet Elias was there, standing in the corner, his...
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