The Pale Door
The iron bit of the crowbar bit into the wood of the doorframe, and Elias Thorne pushed with the full, desperate weight of his body, his boots slipping on the frost-covered flagstones as the autumn wind tore through the skeletal branches of the elms. He was forty-two years old, a man whose spine had long since learned the rigid posture of the archive, yet here in the yard of his ancestral home,...
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