The Pale Garden
The steam whistle of the night shift shrieked through the iron ribs of Millhaven, a sound that did not merely announce the end of the workday but rather tore the fabric of the sky, splitting the twilight into jagged, bleeding segments of grey and bruised purple, and in that moment of auditory violence, Sergeant Elias Thorne stood at the edge of the reservoir, his uniform soaked not by rain but...
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