The Pale Shadows
The letter sat on the kitchen table, its edges yellowed and soft from three years of handling, the ink faded to a faint gray that looked less like writing and more like a bruise. It was a standard Bureau form, a 401-B Request for Final Disposition, but the signature line was empty, waiting for the name of the man who would admit to holding something that did not belong to him. Elias Thorne...
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