The Pale Exile
The gravel crunched under the tires of the black SUV, a rhythmic grinding that Elias Thorne had ignored for twenty-two years. He drove north toward Kettle Creek, the engine humming a low, steady note that usually soothed him, but today the silence in the cab felt heavy, pressurized. In the passenger seat lay the eviction order, a single sheet of paper signed by three different directors,...
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