The Pale Verdict
The rain has not stopped for three days. It taps against the windowpane of the study, a rhythmic, hollow sound that mimics the beating of a heart in distress. You are seated in the high-backed chair, the leather worn smooth by years of your weight. Your hand rests on the armrest. You feel the pulse there. It is steady. It is yours. But lately, it feels like it belongs to the house. The letter...
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