The Pale Bridge
You have always known that the air in the high tower tastes of iron and old dust, a metallic tang that coats the back of your throat and refuses to be swallowed, and it is here, in the shadow of the great stained-glass window where the light falls in jagged, bruised colors across the stone floor, that you stand holding the heavy, velvet-lined box that your mother gave you before the sickness...
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