The Pale Letter
The fog in Oakhaven did not merely obscure the river; it consumed it, a thick, grey slurry that rolled up the banks and settled into the floorboards of the post office like a living thing. Elias Thorne, thirty-two years old and a clerk of twelve years’ service, sat at his desk on the first of November, 1893, staring at the ledger before him. The numbers were clear, but the air was not; it...
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