The Pale Path
The chalk path wound down the escarpment like a finger drawn through wet ash—pale, tentative, and destined to be washed away by the first proper rain. Eleanor had walked it a thousand times since coming to Gablethorne, but she still approached it with the reverent caution of someone treading on ground that might speak. The village of Gablethorne clung to the hillside like a barnacle to ship...
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