The Pale Letter
The ink in the pot was thick as blood, and I had counted four hundred and twelve pages of the uprising’s record before the first knock came against the oak door. I am Elias Thorne, the town archivist, and I have spent the last twenty years keeping the cold at bay, though it is not a cold of the weather but of the spirit, a draft that rises from the floorboards whenever my fingers brush the...
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