The Pale Shadows
The chisel was cold, biting into the limestone with a sound like a dry cough. Elias Thorne held it steady, his knuckles white against the wood, the vibration traveling up his arm and settling in the ache of his shoulder. He looked up. The spire of St. Jude’s rose into the grey November sky, a jagged tooth missing from the town’s mouth. Below, the mill wheels turned in the dark, the rhythmic...
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