The Pale Tower
The letter from Dr. Aris arrived on a Tuesday, the paper heavy and cream-colored, smelling faintly of the tobacco he had smoked for forty years. You read it twice, your eyes tracing the ink that asked you to come to Leeds, to treat a patient of his who was dying, a request that felt less like a commission and more like a summons from the grave. You were forty years old, Elias Vane, a man whose...
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