The Pale Letter
The letter lay on the cold steel of the bunk, its seal broken, the paper brittle as dried skin. Elias Thorne held it by the corner, his fingers trembling not from the chill of the outpost barracks but from the weight of the ink, which seemed to pull at the page with a gravity of its own. He was a sergeant, thirty-eight years old, with twelve years of service and a daughter, Clara, whose lungs...
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