The Pale Exile
The letter lay on the kitchen table, its ink still wet, smelling of iron and cheap pine. Elias Thorne read it twice, his thumb rubbing the crease where the paper had been folded, the texture rough against his skin like the back of a dried leaf. It was a notice of foreclosure from the bank, the language cold and precise, stripping away the last shred of his dignity. He needed the money, not for...
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