The Faded Root
The letter was typed on cream-colored stock, the ink a dull, bureaucratic grey, and it sat on the white floor of the void, waiting to be read. Elias Thorne picked it up with his right hand, his left trembling violently as the fraying root-like cord extending from his palm tightened, a spectral tether binding him to the air, to the memory, to the debt. He was forty-two, a medium who had spent...
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