The Pale Bridge
The brass key was cold in Elias Thorne’s palm, its teeth worn smooth by three years of turning locks that did not want to be opened. He held it up to the gray morning light filtering through the slats of the maintenance shed, the metal gleaming with a dull, oily sheen that matched the grease under his fingernails. Outside, the Pale Bridge stretched across the river like a scar that refused to...
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