The Pale Tale

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2026-08-18 09:46:55 -

The Pale Tale

The rain did not fall so much as it hovered, a fine, grey mist that clung to the wool of my coat and the iron of the lampposts. I stood in the doorway of the old textile mill, the door jammed against the frame by decades of rot. Inside, the air tasted of damp stone and forgotten time. I was not looking for a man. I was looking for a ghost, or perhaps just the shape of a mistake. My name is...

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