The Pale Letter
The fracture is not moving, Elara. It is static. It has been static for six weeks. I wrote that down in the logbook, my hand steady, the graphite smudging against the cheap paper. Halloway stood by the north wall, his back to me, looking at the hairline split in the limestone as if it were a personal insult. He was wearing his wool overcoat, the one that smelled of pipe tobacco and damp wool,...
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