The Pale Exile

added blog Literature

2026-08-18 21:00:21 -

The Pale Exile

The frost had taken the elms first. Then the maples. Now the garden was a skeleton of black wire against a sky the color of old bone. I stood at the window of the high tower. The glass was cold. It bit my fingertips. I did not pull away. I needed the sting. It kept me here. I had not slept in three days. My eyes burned with a dry heat. The air in the room smelled of damp wool and decay. Below,...

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