The Pale Path
The chandelier in the ballroom of the Ashworth Hotel did not so much hang as it hovered, a constellation of crystal that fractured the light into a thousand blinding, dancing shards. Dr. Elias Thorne stood at the center of this suspended glare, a man of fifty-two who had spent the better part of four decades chasing the ghost of a dialect that existed only in the fading memories of a few...
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