The Pale Echo
The ledger of the monastery’s infirmary recorded forty-two pence for a bottle of tincture of opium, a sum that bought silence for the dying but nothing for the living who remained. Dr. Elias Thorne counted the hours in the archive with the same grim precision, marking the decay of his lungs in the slow, rhythmic drag of his breath against the damp, fungal-stained air. He was forty-five, a...
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