The Pale Letter
The train that carried Arthur Vane to the village of Blackwood in the autumn of 1893 was a thing of iron and steam, rattling through the darkened moors with a persistence that felt less like movement and more like a slow, grinding death. He was forty years old, a clerk by trade and a ghost by temperament, his face set in the rigid, pale mask of a man who had buried his wife three months prior...
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