The Pale Tale
The rain hit the asphalt in gray sheets. Elias stood by the window of the precinct’s break room. He watched the water bead and run. It was a cold, flat Tuesday. The coffee in his mug had gone cold hours ago. He did not drink it. He just held the ceramic warmth in his palms. Outside, the city moved. Cars sliced through the mist. Tires hissed. The rhythm was constant. It was the heartbeat of the...
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