The Pale Bridge
The mist rolls in from the valley floor, thick and grey, swallowing the cobblestones beneath your boots. You know the bridge. You have always known it. It stands there, an arch of pale limestone spanning the chasm, wearing its years like a shroud. You carry the ledger. It is heavy in your satchel, a weight that sits low in your belly, dragging at your spine. The pages are brittle, dry as autumn...
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