The Pale Echo
The limestone of St. Jude’s crypt did not merely hold the weight of the centuries; it held the breath of the dead, a silence so dense it pressed against Elias Thorne’s eardrums like a physical substance. He stood in the center of the vault, his forty-five-year-old hands trembling not from cold, but from the rhythmic, low-frequency thrum that vibrated through the soles of his boots and up into...
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