The Pale Path
The dream was always the same: a hand, pale and smooth, resting on the edge of a ledger, the fingers unnaturally long, the skin translucent as if the blood had been drained away by some invisible, patient force. Elias Thorne woke with a gasp, the air in his narrow room in the textile district thick with the scent of damp wool and coal smoke, and for a moment he could not distinguish the tremor...
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