The Pale Letter
The letter lay on the workbench, its edges soft with age, the paper a pale, sickly white that seemed to drink the light from the gas lamp. Elias Thorne held his tweezers steady, his fingers trembling not from cold but from the specific, grinding fatigue of a man who had spent twenty years repairing time for other people while his own life ticked away in the background. He was forty, and his...
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