The Pale Door
The brass buckle of my service belt, a heavy, tarnished thing shaped like a stylized oak leaf that had seen forty years of rain and rust and the relentless friction of my own hands, cracked down the center in the silence of my kitchen, a sound like a twig snapping under a boot in a frozen forest, a sharp, final punctuation to a sentence I had been writing in my body for decades, and as I held...
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