The Pale Letter
The parchment lay on the desk like a wound that had not yet bled, its surface a stark, terrifying white that seemed to absorb the dim light of the Ministry of Records. Elias Thorne, senior archivist for the past twelve years, stared at the sheet, his fingers hovering over the inkwell, trembling not from cold but from the sudden, visceral certainty that he was being watched. The final ledger of...
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