The Pale Tower
The rain does not fall so much as it hangs, a gray curtain of mist that blurs the edges of the world until the horizon is nothing but a smear of wet slate. You are sitting in the kitchen of a house that feels less like a dwelling and more like a waiting room, a place where time has pooled and stagnated, thick and viscous as the soup left simmering on the stove. It is a room stripped of...
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