The Pale Garden
The leather binding of the ledger was cold, slick with a dampness that seemed to seep from the paper itself, and Elias Thorne held it in his trembling hands, his knuckles white against the dark, textured surface. He sat in the deepest alcove of the St. Jude’s Institute archives, a room where the air hung heavy with the scent of mildew and old varnish, the only light coming from a single,...
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