The Pale Door
The sky splits open. It does not thunder. It does not rain. The blue fabric of the afternoon simply tears, revealing a void behind it. A void that breathes. You stand in the center of the field, your coat flapping wildly, the soil turning to dust beneath your boots. You are a scholar. You have spent thirty years in libraries, handling brittle pages, dusting off the ghosts of the past. You know...
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