The Pale Tower
You’re bleeding again, Elias. The coffee in the mug had gone cold an hour ago, its surface forming a skin of gray oil that reflected the pale, gray light of the dawn pressing against the blinds. He held his left hand up, the palm facing the ceiling, and watched the red bead form at the site of the cut on his thumb, a wound that had not closed in three weeks, a small, persistent leak that defied...
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