The Pale Tower
You stand in the corridor of the Greyhall Penitentiary, where the air tastes of damp limestone and the stale, metallic tang of old fear, and you watch the rain streak the high, narrow windows like tears on a face that has forgotten how to weep. It is the year of the great industrial expansion, when the steam hammers outside pound a relentless, rhythmic heartbeat against the earth, and inside,...
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