The Pale Echo
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, the ink still wet on the heavy cream paper. It bore the seal of the City Morgue, a cold, official weight that Arthur Vane felt in his hands before he even broke the wax. He was forty years old, a forensic pathologist who had spent three years in the shadow of the Whispering Man case, a shadow he had helped cast. The case had defined him, a stain on his...
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