The Pale Bridge
The logbook lay open on the wet iron grating, its pages swollen and illegible, the ink bleeding into a black sludge that mirrored the churning river below. Elias Thorne’s fingers, numb and cracked from the November cold, gripped the leather cover, feeling the grease of twenty years of service seep into the skin. He was not there to inspect the trusses. He was there to hold Samuel back from the...
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