The Pale Echo
The rain had turned the cobblestones of Millhaven into a slick, reflective mirror that held the gray, bruised sky upside down, and it was in this damp, industrial twilight that Silas Vane stood before the heavy oak door of the precinct, his hand resting on the brass knocker not to ring it, but to anchor himself against the sudden, vertiginous drop of his own stomach. He was a man carved from...
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