The Pale Bridge
The seal was yellow wax, pressed into the heavy oak door of the bridge maintenance hut, a bright and ugly spot against the grey stone. I stood before it in the damp morning air, my hands in my pockets, watching the river churn below the arches. The regional authority had issued the order three days ago, citing structural instability that I knew, in my bones, was a lie. I am Elias Thorne,...
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