The Pale Garden
The letter lay on the kitchen table, its seal broken, the ink smudged where Elias Thorne’s thumb had pressed it. He read it twice, the paper crinkling under his rough fingers, before he folded it into a small, tight square and slipped it into his coat pocket. The light in the room was thin, a gray sliver cutting through the gap in the curtains, illuminating the dust motes that drifted like...
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