The Pale Shadows
"You look thin, Thomas." The voice was low, gravelly. It came from the shadows of the archway. I did not turn. I kept my eyes on the loaf of bread in my hands. It was still warm. The crust cracked under my thumb, releasing a scent of yeast and iron. "Keep your hands where I can see them," I said. My voice was steady. I had practiced that steadiness for six months. It tasted like ash. "Is that a...
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