The Pale Tower
The fog in Harrow’s End does not roll in; it sits, a low, gray pressure that presses against the windows of my office like a living thing seeking entry. It is November, and the air carries a persistent, low-frequency hum that vibrates in the teeth, a sound I have learned to ignore until it becomes impossible to ignore. I am Elias Thorne, a structural engineer of forty-two years, and for the...
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