The Pale Echo
The coat was gone. Elias Thorne stood in the center of the kitchen, his hand still outstretched, fingers twitching in the stale air. The wood of the counter was cold under his palm. He had worn the coat for forty years. It was not merely wool and lining; it was the second skin of his duty, the heavy, charcoal grey weight that had hung from the hook by the back door since he was a boy running...
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