The Pale Door
The iron latch of the mill gate shrieks against the rusted frame, a sound that splits the heavy, wet silence of the valley like a gunshot. Your fingers, numb from the cold damp that soaks through your wool coat, twist the bolt with a mechanical precision that betrays the tremor in your chest. You are Elias Thorne, thirty-four, a border warden whose entire existence has been defined by the rigid...
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