The Pale Letter
The letter was warm. This was the first impossibility, a tactile anomaly that defied the damp, rotting chill of the sorting cellar where Elias Thorne had spent the last three years hunched over the conveyor belt, his fingers numb from the winter air that seeped through the brickwork. It was a standard envelope, cream-colored, the ink slightly faded but distinct, addressed in a hand he knew...
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