The Pale Tale
The frost had taken the garden first. It moved through the rows of withered kale and the skeletal arms of the apple trees, a silent, gray invasion that stripped the color from the earth. Elias Thorne stood at the window, his breath fogging the glass. He held a small, broken piece of pottery in his left hand. It was a shard from a blue bowl, chipped and jagged, cold against his palm. He had held...
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