The Pale Letter
Thorne, you are letting the light in. The voice was not one that belonged to the waking world, but you opened your eyes to the grey, damp light of a Tuesday morning in November, and the first thing you saw was the letter. It lay on your desk, pale as a bone, sealed with a wax disc the color of dried blood. You are Elias Thorne, an archivist of modest renown and considerable anxiety, and for...
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