The Pale Door
The wind did not blow. It pushed. It shoved against Margaret’s chest with a dull, heavy hand, as if the air itself had weight and grudge. She walked. Her left shoe was gone. Not lost. Gone. The leather had simply ceased to exist, leaving her foot raw and red against the cold, grey pebbles of the path. She did not stop to look for it. There was no time. The sun hung low and white, a bleached...
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