The Pale Door
The paper was thin, yellowed at the edges, and smelled of dust and old tobacco. Elias Vane held it in his trembling hands, the ink of the signature smudged by his sweat. It was a draft. A worthless, preliminary draft of the deed to the estate, dated three months before his uncle’s death. He had found it tucked behind a loose brick in the cellar, a mistake of storage that had cost him twenty...
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