The Pale Fracture
The letter arrived on a Tuesday, printed on the heavy, cream-colored stock of the Bureau of Anomalous Affairs. It was a summons. By noon, I had to surrender my instruments. I read it three times, the ink smudging slightly under my thumb, a small, oily stain that looked like a bruise. I am Elias Thorne, thirty-two, and I am a reader of the dead. In the grey city, where the fog sits low and...
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