The Pale Path
The rain did not fall so much as it hung, a persistent, grey veil that blurred the edges of the world outside the high windows of the St. Jude’s Archive. Inside, the air was stale, recycled through vents that hummed with the low, electric drone of a bureaucracy that had long since forgotten the human element it claimed to preserve. Elias Thorne sat in his usual chair, a mahogany monolith that...
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