The Pale Dance
Thorne. The name hit the back of my skull like a hammer blow, sharp and cold, before I even looked up from the clipboard. I was signing the final time-in sheet for the Kessler post, the pen scratching a dry, rasping sound against the cheap paper. Outside, the wind was stripping the last of the leaves from the oak trees, a frantic, papery rustle that sounded like someone tearing a banknote in...
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