The Pale Path
You are wrong. You have always been wrong about the weight of things. You believe you are a scholar of bones, a cartographer of the human frame. You are not. You are merely a witness to a collapse you did not cause but could not stop. The rain falls on the glass. It is cold. It is ancient. It is indifferent. You sit in the study. The books are dead. Their spines crack like dry twigs. You do not...
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