The Pale Path
You stand at the edge of the treeline where the fog thickens into a grey wall that swallows the horizon and the sky and the last dying light of the autumn sun all at once, your boots sinking into the wet, sucking mud of the valley floor, the cold seeping up through the soles and into the bones of your legs, a cold that has nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the hollow...
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