The Pale Tower

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2026-08-18 10:41:11 -

The Pale Tower

The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a thick, grey curtain that smelled of wet stone and rotting turnips, and I stood there in the yard behind the chapel, holding a coat that had been my father’s, and then it was my mother’s, and then, by some cruel and quiet alchemy of time and thread, it was mine, though I had never asked for it and would have burned it if I could have done so...

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