The Pale Path
The rain in the Hollow does not fall so much as it accumulates, a slow, gray sediment that coats the stones and the skin and the very air with a taste of iron and old, wet earth, until you can no longer tell where the sky ends and the ground begins, or where your own body stops and the cold, pervasive dampness starts. I am a Sergeant, a title that once meant something solid, a weight I could...
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