The Pale Path
The wool of my father’s coat had once been the color of deep river clay, a shade that absorbed the light of the hearth and held it close, but by the time the Magistrate’s men came to take it, the fabric had faded to the pale, sickly gray of winter lichen. It hung in the center of the room, on a wooden hook that I had carved myself from a fallen branch of ash, and its presence dominated the...
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