The Pale Door
The road to the Abbey of St. Jude was a ribbon of mud that clung to the wheels of my cart, sucking at the hooves of my mule with a wet, heavy sound. It was the kind of autumn that did not simply arrive but descended, a slow, gray shroud that erased the horizon and made the world feel small and confined. I was a keeper of the seal, a man whose duty was to guard the threshold, yet I found myself...
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