The Pale Letter
The rain did not fall so much as it invaded, a cold, gray mist that seeped through the wool of his greatcoat and settled into the marrow of his bones, turning the stone walls of the outpost into a living, breathing membrane of damp and chill. Silas Thorne stood in the center of the room, his hand resting on the hilt of his service pistol, the leather grip worn smooth by years of anxiety and the...
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