The Pale Shadows
The wind off the moor did not howl; it scraped, a dry, abrasive sound against the limestone ribs of the unfinished chapel. Elias Whitmore stood on the scaffolding, his chisel biting into the wet stone, the rhythm of the hammer a dull thud that matched the beating of his own heart. He was thirty-four, a mason by trade and a ghost by reputation, and he had one task: finish the roof before the...
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