The Pale Door
The coal dust in Ashworth had settled into the very fabric of the air, a fine, grey silt that coated the tongue and gritted between the teeth, but Sergeant Elias Thorne did not taste it as he walked the cobbled road toward the edge of town, his boots striking the wet stone with a rhythmic, mechanical precision that belied the turbulence churning within his chest. He was thirty-four years old, a...
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