The Pale Tower
The shimmer began at dawn, a vertical fracture in the air above the salt flats, pale and trembling like a wound that refused to close. You are Elias Thorne, forty-five years old, and you have spent the last three years watching your left hand slowly betray you, the fingers stiffening into a claw that can no longer hold a canteen, let alone a radio. You want only one thing: to survive until your...
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