The Pale Tale
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the windowpanes of the cottage, a rhythmic, relentless tapping that sounded like fingernails on wood. Elias Thorne sat in the armchair, his hands wrapped around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold. He was sixty-four, but the lines on his face looked deeper than his age. He looked at the hallway door. It was closed. He had closed...
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