The Pale Altar
The brickwork of the St. Jude’s Boiler House did not merely stand; it loomed, a heavy, soot-blackened monolith that seemed to suck the light out of the November afternoon, pressing down on the narrow cobbled street with the weight of a century of industrial sweat and silence, while inside, Eleanor Vance stood before the great central furnace, her hands trembling not from the cold that seeped...
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