The Pale Bridge
The iron gates of the Blackwood Institute did not creak so much as they sighed, a low, metallic exhalation that seemed to emanate from the very bones of the Victorian structure. Elias Thorne stood before them, his hands trembling not from the cold that had settled into his marrow since dawn, but from the specific, vibrating frequency of hope he had cultivated over seven years of silence. He was...
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