The Pale Altar
The rain in Harrowgate did not fall so much as it hung, a suspended mist that clung to the soot-blackened brickwork and the rusted iron of the factory chimneys, creating a perpetual state of damp, industrial twilight that seeped into the bones of anyone who worked the night shift. Elias Thorne, a man whose career in municipal sanitation had been defined by a quiet, relentless precision, stood...
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