The Pale Path
The glass was not broken. It was merely waiting to be. “Do you see it, Thomas?” The voice did not come from behind him, but from the air itself, a vibration that hummed against the teeth like a tuning fork struck in a silent cathedral. Thomas turned, his boots scraping against the floorboards of the attic room, a space that smelled of dust, dried lavender, and the metallic tang of old blood. He...
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