The Pale Door
You hold the vial in your left hand, the glass warm from the friction of your palm, while your right hand trembles against the cold oak of the lectern. The lecture hall is a cathedral of silence, the air thick with the scent of old paper and the faint, metallic tang of ozone that seems to permeate the stone walls of the old university. You are Professor Elias Thorne, and you are speaking to a...
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