The Pale Letter
The paper was cold against your palm, colder than the ink that bled through it, and you knew before you looked at the date that Silas had been right. You are Elias Thorne, forty-two years old, and you have spent the last decade of your life in the Ministry of Records, a place where the air smells of dry rot and old fear, and your only desire, the single burning coal in the chest of your...
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