The Pale Tale
The hair was on the linoleum again, forming a face that did not belong to the dog. Elias Thorne knelt in the narrow hallway of the border station, his knees pressing into the cold, gritty floor. The golden retriever, Barnaby, stood by the water bowl, tail thumping a dull, rhythmic beat against the baseboard. Elias picked up the clump of fur. It was not just a tuft; it was a dense, matted swirl...
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