The Pale Path
Thorne. The name hung in the breakroom air, heavy and dry. Elias looked up from the cold coffee, the mug chipped at the rim, a ring of rust-colored stain around the lip. Across the table, Silas sat with the stillness of a man who owned the silence. The fluorescent lights buzzed, a low, electric hum that seemed to drill into the base of Elias’s skull. Twenty years. Twenty years of filing, of...
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