The Pale Letter
You are not a man. You are a stain on the floorboards of the old manor, a shadow that has forgotten how to move. The rain hammers against the stained glass, a rhythmic, bruising sound that vibrates in your teeth. You sit in the corner of the library, your hands folded in your lap, fingers interlaced until the knuckles turn white. You are waiting. You are always waiting. The door creaks open. It...
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