The Pale Bridge
The notice was a single sheet of cream-colored paper, typed in the austere, sans-serif font of the Ministry, resting on the black oak desk. Elias Thorne held it by the edges, his fingers trembling not from cold, but from the terrible lightness of his own hands. The ink on the page was still wet, glistening with a wetness that seemed to pull at the skin of his knuckles. He was forty-two years...
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