The Pale Bridge
The bridge was not made of stone, nor was it made of wood, but it felt like both to the toes of young Elias, who stood on the wet cobblestones of the lower bank with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his woolen coat, feeling the cold seep through the fabric and into the bone of his wrists. It was a bridge of pale, translucent bone, stretching across a chasm of mist that smelled of wet...
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