The Pale Altar
The rain in Oakhaven did not fall so much as it hovered, a suspended gray mist that clung to the wool of coats and the hair of dogs, turning the cobblestones into slick, dark mirrors. It was the kind of weather that made people hurry, not from fear of getting wet, but from a sudden, visceral need to be somewhere else, anywhere but in the damp, suffocating stillness of the town square. Thomas...
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