The Pale Echo
The letter lay on the desk, the ink still wet and glistening under the gaslight, a stark black smear against the cream-colored paper. I signed it with a steady hand, though the cold in my fingers suggested otherwise, and slipped it into the envelope addressed to Mr. Vane, my superior at the Ministry of Records in London. I wanted out. I wanted to leave Oakhaven, this fog-choked pocket of the...
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