The Pale Tale
The door clicked shut. It was a small, final sound, like a bone snapping under a finger. Elias stood in the corridor of the Institute. The carpet was thick, grey, and smelled of old dust and lemon polish. He held his coat in his hands. It was a heavy thing, wool and tweed, dark as a bruise. He had worn it for twelve years. It had survived three winters, two promotions, and one divorce. Now it...
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