The Pale Path
The brass key was cold, heavier than it looked, its teeth worn smooth by years of turning in the lock of the city archive. You held it in your left hand, the metal biting into the callus on your thumb, while the fog outside the window pressed against the glass like a living thing. Inside, the air smelled of dust, dried lavender, and the faint, sweet rot of decay. You were Elias Thorne, a...
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