The Pale Tower
The heavy brass key, cold and pitted with verdigris, lay in Elias Thorne’s palm, its weight a physical anchor against the tremor in his hand. He sat in the high-ceilinged study of the Thorne estate, the air thick with the scent of damp plaster and old paper, staring at the cracked wall where the wallpaper was peeling back to reveal the pale, distorted reflection of a tower that did not exist in...
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