The Faded Paradox
The gash was still weeping when General Halloway entered the room, a thin line of red cutting across the pale, dry skin of Thorne’s left palm. It was a wound that should not have existed, for Thorne had not struck a blow in the last three days, yet the flesh had split as if pulled by an invisible hook, leaving the hand trembling and weak in the dim light of the border station. Halloway did not...
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