The Pale Bridge
The coat is already fraying at the cuffs, the wool thinning to a translucent gauze that lets the cold bite straight through to your skin. You are seven years old, or perhaps eight, time is a slippery eel in this place, and you are running. The air smells of ozone and burnt sugar. You are in the Gray, that vast, shifting expanse of mist that sits behind the curtains of the waking world, the...
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