The Pale Shadows
The rain did not fall; it hung. A gray, oily mist that clung to the iron ribs of the abandoned textile mill. Elias sat on a crate of rotting cotton, his hands resting on his knees. His hands were maps of ruin. Scars crisscrossed the knuckles. Veins bulged like roots under thin soil. He watched the mist swirl around the broken window. Inside, the air smelled of rust and old sweat. He was not a...
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