The Pale Fracture
The notice lay on the workbench, its edges curling slightly in the dry heat of the furnace room, the ink a stark black against the coarse, grey paper that smelled of sulfur and stale sweat. It was a list of debts, or perhaps a list of sins, though the distinction had blurred in Oakhaven for the last three years, where the air itself felt thick with the weight of unspoken agreements. You picked...
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