The Pale Letter
The ink on the document was still wet when you found it, glistening in the dim light of the barracks like a fresh bruise. You were Elias Thorne, thirty-four, a border patrol officer with twelve years of service and a spine that ached with the damp cold of the highlands, and you wanted the final signature on your pension file to buy the house in the valley that Mara had promised herself before...
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