The Pale Path
The ink on the form was still wet when Arthur Vane signed it, the nib scratching a harsh, dry line across the paper. It was a simple document, a request for extended hours, but the weight of the signature felt heavier than the parchment. He slid it into the tray beside the blotter, his hand trembling slightly, not from cold but from the tightness in his calves. The office smelled of stale...
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