The Pale Tale
The rain on the moor did not fall so much as it was exhaled by the low, bruised sky, a cold, persistent breath that soaked through my wool coat and settled into the marrow of my bones, a chill that felt less like weather and more like a moral judgment, a heavy, wet hand pressing down on the chest of the world. I had walked for three days without rest, my boots caked in the black, sucking clay...
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