The Pale Garden
The rain hits the asphalt like a thousand tiny fists. You are tired. Your back aches, a dull, grinding pain that has lived there since the deployment. You adjust your coat. The fabric is wet. Cold. You stand on the porch of the old Victorian house. It leans into the storm like a drunk man. The lights are on inside. Yellow. Sickly. You know who is in there. You know because you have been looking...
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