The Pale Echo
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended grey curtain that blurred the boundary between the street and the window of the precinct station. Inspector Elias Thorne sat at his desk, the wood worn smooth by decades of hands that had held pens, guns, and the shoulders of the grieving. He was fifty-eight, a man whose body had become a map of his service, the joints stiffening...
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