The Pale Exile
The rain hit the window in long, gray sheets. It did not knock. It simply arrived, a cold, wet weight against the glass. I stood in the hallway. My shoes were off. They had been off for days. The house was quiet, but it was a loud quiet. The kind that presses against your eardrums. My father sat in his chair by the fire. He was small now. The fire was low. It crackled once, then went still. He...
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