The Pale Letter
You are lying on your back in the cold, damp earth of a garden that does not appear on any map, and the sky above you is a bruised purple, heavy with the weight of a storm that has been threatening for three days but refuses to break, and you can feel the vibration of the coming rain in your teeth, a dull, rhythmic thrumming that matches the slow, labored beat of your own heart, which is still...
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