The Pale Altar
The invoice for the specialized borosilicate tubing sat on the steel workbench, its edges curling slightly in the heat of the draft from the open window, a stark white rectangle against the dark, soot-streaked linoleum. Elias Thorne traced the total amount with a finger that trembled not from cold, but from the residual vibration of a dream he had not yet shaken off, the numbers blurring into a...
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