The Pale Tale
The ink in the fountain pen had dried into a crusty, orange-brown scab at the nib, and Sergeant Elias Thorne worked a thumbnail under the metal to scrape it loose, the gritty friction of the grit against the brass the only sound in the cramped, windowless office that smelled of damp wool and stale tobacco. He was thirty-four years old, a man whose face had been weathered by the wind off the...
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