The Pale Tower
The glass shaker sat on the mahogany desk, a small, fragile cylinder of sand and silence. Elias Thorne held it in his palm, feeling the cold weight of it, the way it settled against the lines of his hand like a secret that had been waiting too long to be told. It was a simple object, a decorative piece he had picked up in a curiosity shop in Whitechapel years ago, but to him it was the only...
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