The Pale Altar
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a suspended gray curtain that blurred the edge of the university campus where Elias Thorne stood, his coat damp and heavy, his jaw a dull, throbbing ache that had become the metronome of his life for three years. He was forty-five, an archivist of modest renown, a man who had built his career on the meticulous preservation of the past while...
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