The Pale Door
The morning air in the industrial valleys of the Ohio River basin tasted of sulfur and wet ash, a metallic tang that coated the back of the throat and settled deep in the lungs of Sergeant Elias Thorne as he stood on the cracked pavement of the depot, watching the steam from the locomotive’s whistle dissolve into the grey, overcast sky. He held the brass pocket watch in his palm, its cold...
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