The Pale Door
The mist that clings to the valleys of the Old West is not merely water vapor, it is the exhaled breath of the earth itself, a thick, grey wool that suffocates the sun and turns the world into a watercolor painting left out in the rain, and it is here, in this damp and silent twilight, that I stand with my hands bound by the invisible chains of my own guilt, a sinner wandering through a...
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