The Pale Garden
The door to the cellar does not lock from the inside, yet it feels like it does, a heavy, iron-bound slab of oak that smells of wet earth and old blood, and you are standing on the other side of it, watching the light from the hallway above cut a thin, pale sliver across your face as the final, terrible weight of the handle drops, and you know, with a cold certainty that settles into your...
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