The Pale Letter
The frost did not merely settle on the windows of the old university library; it invaded, a creeping, silent army of white lace that turned the glass into a frosted mirror of the man’s own hollow face. Arthur Penhaligon sat at his desk, the wood worn smooth by decades of nervous elbows and trembling hands, and stared at the single, dead moth pinned to the corkboard above his head. It was a...
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