The Pale Letter
The letter arrived on a Tuesday in late October, the day the fog had turned the streets of London into a grey, breathing thing. Elias Thorne, Professor of Folklore at King’s College, held the envelope in his gloved hands, his breath hitching in his chest as he recognized the script. It was Clara’s. The ink was pale, a washed-out violet that seemed to fade before his eyes, but the slant of the...
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