The Pale Shadows
The jar sat on the shelf. It was a squat, glass vessel, thick-walled and clouded by years of condensation. Inside, the liquid was a murky amber, swirling with suspended particles that looked like ground bark or dried blood. I held it in my hands. My knuckles were white. The glass was cold, a shock against the warmth of my palms. This was the cure. Or the poison. I had never been sure which. It...
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