The Pale Door
The dust in the transept was thick enough to taste, a chalky powder that coated Elias Thorne’s tongue with the dry flavor of unfinished stone. He stood alone in the dim light of the afternoon, his hands resting on the cold surface of the Pale Door, a massive slab of alabaster that had waited for thirty years to be carved. The desire to finish it was not merely professional pride; it was the...
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