The Pale Letter
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, cold mist that clung to the wool of Thomas Bradshaw’s coat and turned the cobblestones of the valley road into slick, black mirrors reflecting the bruised purple sky above, a sky that seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for something terrible to be said. Thomas walked with the heavy, deliberate pace of a man who has carried too...
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