The Pale Letter
You are running, and the mud is sucking at your boots with a wet, deliberate malice, pulling you down into the earth as if the ground itself has grown teeth. The forest is not merely dark; it is a presence, a thick, breathing wall of black pine and ancient oak that presses against your skin, whispering in a language you almost understand. You are not a hero. You are a sinner, a man who has...
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