The Pale Echo
The porcelain rim bit into the meat of your thumb, a sharp, white pain that cut through the dull ache of the headache settling behind your eyes. You sat in the cramped office of the Oakhaven Police Station, the gaslight hissing softly in its brass cage, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the stagnant air. The cup was shattered, the handle snapped off, the glaze cracked in a spiderweb...
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