The Pale Fracture
The bell above the heavy oak doors of the St. Jude’s Institute for Botanical Preservation did not ring so much as it exhaled, a low, resonant thrum that vibrated through the soles of your leather boots as you stepped from the biting November fog into the sterile, amber-lit corridor. You were a man of books and quiet hours, a scholar of taxonomy whose fingers were perpetually stained with the...
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