The Pale Altar
The crack in the facade of St. Jude’s Chapel did not merely split the stone; it seemed to swallow the morning light, a jagged void that Elias Thorne stared at with the cold, analytical precision of a man measuring the trajectory of a falling body. It was 1912, and the air in the industrial district tasted of coal smoke and wet iron, a heavy, suffocating blanket that pressed against the...
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