The Pale Tale
The mud in the Hollow Creek quarry did not care that Elias Thorne was dying. It was a thick, freezing slurry that sucked at the blade of his shovel with a wet, viscous sound, resisting his every pull. Elias was fifty-two, and his lungs burned with a cough that tasted of rust and old blood, a symptom of the terminal diagnosis he had received three weeks ago. He wanted the foundation stone. He...
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