The Pale Tower
I had counted the rivets in the north-east quadrant forty times, each one a small, cold promise of structural integrity, and the light was failing fast, turning the interior of the Pale Tower into a grey, suspended breath. My wrist throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, a counter-beat to the low-frequency hum that had been vibrating in my teeth since I first climbed the scaffolding three weeks...
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