The Pale Tower
The air in the hallway of the Whitmore residence tasted of old dust and unwashed wool, a sensory texture that clung to the back of young Julian’s throat as he stood before the mahogany double doors. He was twelve years old, though he felt the weight of a century in his small, trembling shoulders, and his fingers, stained with the charcoal of his late afternoon drawings, hung limp at his sides...
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