The Pale Circus

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2026-08-20 01:50:44 -

The Pale Circus

The frost bites. You feel it in the knuckles. The leather gloves are thin. They were thin when you bought them. They are thinner now. You are standing on the porch. The wood groans under your weight. It is a sound like a dying man. Or a bird. Hard to tell. The town is asleep. The lights are off. The streetlamps hum. A low, sickly buzz. You look down. At your hands. They are shaking. Not from...

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