The Pale Path
The rain hammered the tin roof of the pub. A wet, relentless drumming. Inside, the air hung heavy. Smoke and stale beer. The smell of wet wool. The room was full. Faces blurred in the haze. Miles stood by the bar. His hands were cold. He held a glass of water. He didn't drink. He watched the door. "Is he here?" asked a man in the corner. The voice was low. Rough. Like gravel in a tin. Miles...
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