The Pale Shadows
The proof is late, Elias. Mr. Halloway’s voice was not loud, but it carried the weight of a closing door. He stood in the doorway of the composition room, his tie knotted tight against a throat that seemed perpetually swollen with irritation. The clock on the wall ticked with a mechanical, indifferent persistence, each second a small, sharp blow against the silence. Elias looked up from the...
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