The Pale Path

added blog Literature

2026-08-18 17:54:04 -

The Pale Path

The rain did not fall; it was pressed down from a sky of bruised iron. It hammered the slate roof of the Holloway estate, a sound like knuckles rapping against a coffin lid. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wet wool and old wood. Marguerite stood by the window. Her hands were white. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick. She watched the mist swallow the garden. The path was gone....

0 Comments 0 Shares 31 Views 0 Reviews