The Pale Verdict
The train station at Blackwood was a cathedral of iron and soot. Margaret Holloway stood on the platform, her coat buttoned to the throat, watching the fog swallow the tracks. She was leaving. The decision had been made weeks ago, sealed in the cold ledgers of the Department of Anomalous Structures. She carried a leather satchel. Inside lay a single file. The name on the folder was Thomas...
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