The Pale Shadows
The rain fell on the slate roof of the boarding house like a steady drumroll, a sound that had marked the hours of my childhood and, I was beginning to suspect, would mark the hours of my grave. I stood by the window, watching the fog roll in from the harbor, thick and white as the milk we drank every morning. It was the last night before I left. My father sat in the armchair by the fire, his...
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