The Pale Garden
The wind does not knock. It scrapes. You stand at the edge of the moor. The grass is high, yellowed by a long, dry summer, and it bends under the weight of the cold air. You are not human. You know this. The skin on your hands is too pale, the bones too sharp. You are a creature of the old blood, a thing that belongs to the shadows between the hedges. But you wear a coat. You wear a hat. You...
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