The Pale Dance

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2026-08-18 03:35:32 -

The Pale Dance

The wind bites. It has teeth. You feel them on your face. Cold. Sharp. You are in the orchard. The apples are gone. The trees are bones. White. Bare. You look up. The sky is a sheet of grey wool. It presses down. You are here. You are alone. Or so you think. You count the trees. One. Two. Three. You lose count at ten. The numbers blur. The wind hums. A low drone. It sounds like a throat...

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