The Pale Path
The chisel struck the limestone with a rhythmic, dull thud, the sound counting out the hours of the morning in a steady, mechanical pulse that Elias had long since stopped hearing. He counted the strokes in his head, a habit born of the need to keep the mind from wandering into the sickroom where his father lay, breathing in shallow, rattling sips of air. The memorial was for Magistrate Thorne,...
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