The Pale Path

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2026-08-18 13:03:51 -

The Pale Path

The wool coat had no owner. It hung on a peg in the hallway of the old mill, damp and heavy, smelling of wet stone and something faintly metallic, like old blood or rust. I did not put it there. I did not take it off. It simply was, draped over the hook as if it had grown there from the wood, a grey ghost of a garment that breathed in the drafts that slithered under the door. My name is Elias....

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