The Pale Path
The coat was white. Not the blinding, sterile white of a hospital ward or the fresh snow that clings to the northern ridges in late November, but a pale, creamy alabaster, the kind of color that seems to absorb the light rather than reflect it, a fabric so fine and tightly woven that it possessed a kind of auditory silence, a hush that settled over the shoulders of Elias Thorne like a shroud...
0 Comments 0 Shares 2 Views 0 Reviews