The Pale Tale
The charcoal suit sat on the trunk, heavy with the weight of two decades. Elias Thorne stood before it, his hands trembling not from cold, but from a visceral, primal urge to discard the fabric that had defined him. He was forty-five, a master tailor whose name had once whispered through the corridors of the royal court, but now the shop on Baker Street was bleeding money, and the rent was a...
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