The Pale Tower
The bolt in Elias’s hand was cold, a strip of steel that had been sitting in the damp for three days. He tightened it against the flange of the water tower’s intake valve, the metal biting into his palm, and watched the rust flake away in small, dry scales. The tower stood in the center of Millbrook, a pale concrete cylinder that had watched over the town since 1954, and now it was Elias’s only...
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