The Pale Tower
The rain against the windowpane was a rhythmic, wet applause that had been going on for three days, blurring the view of the industrial park into a smear of gray and black. Elias Thorne sat in the high-backed leather chair, his hands resting on the arms, fingers curled loosely around the upholstery. He was an old man, not in the frail sense, but in the sense of a stone that has been smoothed by...
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