The Pale Path
The ink had not yet dried on the rejection letter when the pale line appeared. It was a thin, luminous thread, no wider than a hair, pulsing with a cold, sickly light against the gray pulp of the newsprint. Clara Vane stared at it, her fingers trembling not from the cold of the London fog pressing against the window, but from the sudden, violent intrusion of the impossible into the mundane. She...
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