The Pale Altar
The ink on the departure form was still wet, glistening under the harsh, flickering gaslight of my office, a dark smear that looked less like a signature and more like a wound that had refused to clot. Silas had left the document on my desk, the paper trembling slightly as if the air itself were holding its breath, and I found myself staring at the date, November 14th, 1913, a number that felt...
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