The Pale Letter
The soot on the glass was thick enough to scrape, a black crust that Elias Thorne worked at with his thumbnail until his skin bled, the motion rhythmic and dull as the hammering in his temples. He held the pane up to the light of the office lamp, turning it so the grime caught the glow, and in that warped, dirty reflection he saw not his own face but the hollows of Clara’s cheeks, the specific,...
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