The Pale Verdict
The letter lay on the kitchen table, its edges curling slightly in the humid air, the ink a stark, bureaucratic black against the cream of the institutional stationery. Elara Vane held the pen in her right hand, the nib hovering over the signature line, while her left hand rested flat on the wood, trembling with a fatigue that seemed to emanate from the bone itself. She did not sign it. She...
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