The Pale Garden
The rain had not stopped for three days, a persistent, gray weeping that turned the cobblestones of the old estate into a slick, mirror-like surface where the reflection of the crumbling mansion was fractured and distorted, a visual echo of the rotting wood and peeling plaster that defined the architecture of the Whitmore House. Elias Thorne walked the length of the hallway, his footsteps...
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