The Pale Banner
The wool of the scarf was fraying at the ends, a grayish-brown tangle that smelled of damp earth and old paper, and Elias Thorne held it so tightly in his left hand that the knuckles turned white against the cold air of the archive, his right hand trembling as he tried to align the tab of the new case file with the slot on the card catalog. He was forty-five years old, a man who had spent...
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