The Pale Letter
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a fine, persistent mist that clung to the skin of the city like a second, colder layer of reality, and in the high window of the apartment on the fourth floor of the crumbling Victorian terrace, Elias Thorne watched the water drip from the eaves with the slow, detached patience of a man who has long since stopped expecting the weather to change his...
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