The Pale Verdict
The candle gutters. You watch the flame die. It is a small death. It is your death. You sit in the chair. The wood is cold. The room is dark. Only the moonlight cuts the corner of the table. It is a silver blade. It slices the air. You are alone. You have always been alone. Not in body. In mind. The book is open. The pages are yellow. The ink is black. The letters are sharp. They look like...
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