The Pale Path
The cough starts in the throat, a dry, scraping thing that tastes of iron. You press a handkerchief to your mouth and pull it away. Red spots bloom on the white fabric. You fold it quickly, hiding the evidence from the empty room, from the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of afternoon light. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two, the city’s archivist. You have spent twenty years cataloging the...
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