The Pale Garden
The rain hit the windowpane like gravel. It was a steady, gray hammering that turned the night into a blur of streaks. Elias stood by the door. He wore his armor. It was not steel. It was plate glass. He had built it over the years. Thin sheets, cut from the windows of the old chapel. They were clear, or they were supposed to be. Now they were clouded with dust and age. They did not reflect the...
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