The Pale Tower
The rain against the floor-to-ceiling glass of the forty-second floor was not falling down; it was sliding sideways, a slow, viscous creep that defied gravity and logic. Elias Thorne pressed his thumb against the crack in the brass casing of his father’s compass, the metal worn smooth by two decades of his own anxious handling, and watched the shadows in the corner of the office lengthen toward...
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