The Pale Door
The door is white. It is the only white thing in the world. You stand before it, and the paint is peeling, curling up like dead skin, revealing the gray rot beneath. You know what this place is. You have always known. It is the house you left. It is the house that left you. You are not dreaming, but the air tastes of static and old dust, and your feet do not make a sound on the floor. You are...
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