The Pale Shadows
The iron gate at the edge of the moor did not rust, a fact that unsettled you before you even touched the cold, smooth surface with your fingertips, for in a world where decay is the only honest language, permanence is a lie that breathes and waits. You stand there, the wind pulling at the hem of your heavy wool coat, carrying the scent of peat and distant rain, while the figure of Alderman...
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