The Pale Tale
The rain against the windowpane of the archive room did not sound like water, but like the static of a dying radio. Elias Thorne sat at the heavy oak desk, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the wood, the friction burning the skin raw. Across from him, Director Halloway leaned back, the leather of his chair creaking in the stillness. The air in the room was thick, stale with the scent...
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