The Pale Path
The bird is in your hand. Do you feel it? The weight of it. It is not heavy, but it is dense. A solid knot of feathers and bone. You hold it tight. Your fingers are locked around its chest. You are standing in the center of the Hall. The floor is black marble. It reflects your face. Your face is pale. Your face is old. "Is it dead?" The voice comes from behind you. It is smooth. It is wet. It...
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