The Pale Letter
The frost crept across the desk in delicate, fern-like patterns, but the paper did not freeze. Elias Thorne stared at it, his breath hanging in the air like a ghost of its own. The letter was pale, almost translucent, and the ink was still wet. It had not been there an hour ago. Now, a single line of script, elegant and terrifying, sat in the center of the page. Elias rubbed his eyes until he...
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