The Pale Door
Chapter One Pietro Bellini held a cracked porcelain mirror in his left hand, the cold ceramic biting into his palm like a shard of frozen river ice, while the rain outside the night market sluiced down the wet stones in a relentless, gray curtain that turned the canal into a mirror of its own drowning. He was thirty-four years old, a junior archivist who had spent five years cataloging the...
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