The Pale Letter
The rain had been falling for three days, a relentless, gray curtain that turned the windows of the manor into mirrors of distorted reality, and Elias Thorne sat at his desk, the pen trembling in his hand as he stared at the final page of Clara’s journal, knowing that if he wrote the next word, he would be betraying the very silence he had sworn to protect. He was fifty-two, a retired archivist...
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