The Pale Door
The bone snapped before the scream did. It happened in the street. The cobblestones were wet. Rain slicked the stone. My leg gave way. I fell. The crowd parted. They did not look. They looked through me. I was a stain on the wet city. I am Thomas Bradshaw. Or I was. That is what the papers said. That is what the church said. But the church is a cage. The papers are lies. I am a thing that has...
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