The Pale Bridge
The wind did not howl; it spoke, and the voice that tore through the iron lattice of the bridge was unmistakably the low, rough baritone of Thomas, Elias’s brother, who had been dead for six years. Elias Thorne stood on the center span, his boots slipping on the frost-slicked girders, clutching his father’s old wool coat so tightly that the fabric groaned under the pressure of his white...
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