The Pale Door
The fog that rolled in from the Atlantic did not merely obscure the world; it unmade it, dissolving the sharp, iron-clad edges of the industrial harbor into a grey, breathing mist. Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the pier, his coat heavy with damp, watching the water churn with a sluggish, mechanical rhythm. He was a man of books and cold logic, a scholar who had spent decades mapping the...
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