The Pale Altar

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2026-08-18 17:39:54 -

The Pale Altar

The train smelled of wet wool and old rust. I sat by the window, watching the grey fields of the valley slide past in a blur, my hands resting on my knees. In my lap lay a small, velvet pouch, heavy with the weight of a single, pale pearl. It was my father’s. He had pressed it into my palm the night before we left, his face a mask of exhaustion and something else, something that looked like...

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