The Pale Door
The ice breaks first. Not with a crack. Not with a roar. It happens with a sigh. A long, shuddering exhalation of the world. You are standing on the shelf. The air tastes of ozone and old blood. You know what it is. You have spent your life cataloging its decay. But you did not expect the sound. You did not expect the silence that follows. The platform beneath your feet is thinning. The light...
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