The Pale Tale
"Is it true?" The voice was low, barely a whisper against the draft that seeped through the stone walls. Silas did not look up. He kept his eyes on the chisel. The tip bit into the limestone, sending a fine, white dust swirling in the shaft of grey light. He felt the vibration travel up his arm, a dull, persistent hum. He had been here for three days. The chapel was unfinished. The roof had...
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