The Pale Exile
The rain did not fall so much as it hung in the air, a fine, persistent mist that clung to your skin and turned the world into a watercolor that refused to dry. You stood at the edge of the veranda, watching the yard where the grass had gone a sickly, pale yellow under the weight of the season. It was a house that had always felt too large for the number of people who lived inside it, a...
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