The Pale Exile
The ink is wet. It stains your thumb. Black. The paper is cream. Thin. Fragile. You hold it. Trembling. The house is silent. Too silent. The clock ticks. Tick. Tick. Tick. Outside, the rain falls. On the slate. On the cobblestones. On the wet leaves. You are in the study. It is midnight. Or perhaps dawn. Time has lost its shape. The letter lies on the desk. Your name. Printed. Official. A seal...
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