The Pale Bridge
The watch is heavy. It has always been heavy. You hold it in your palm, the brass cold against the sweat of your skin. The face is white. The hands are stopped. You do not look at the time. You look at the hairline crack running through the crystal. It looks like a vein. It looks like a road. You are standing in the corridor of the palace. The wallpaper is peeling. It curls away from the...
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