The Pale Bridge
The letter lay on the kitchen table, its edges softened by the damp air of the mill town, bearing the stern, ink-stamped seal of the Whitmore Textile Company. Elara Vane did not open it immediately. She stood by the window, watching the gray slush of November accumulate on the cobblestones, her fingers tracing the smooth, cold glass until the condensation blurred the view of the factory...
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