The Pale Door
The rain had been falling for three days, a persistent and gray curtain that turned the cobblestones of the valley town into slick mirrors reflecting the soot-stained bricks of the textile mills, where the air hung heavy with the scent of wet wool and coal smoke, and it was in this damp and oppressive quiet that Elias Thorne, a man whose hands were permanently stained with the indigo dye of the...
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