The Pale Exile
The door closed with a finality that cracked the silence of the room. Margaret stood by the window. The glass was cold. Her breath fogged it. She wiped it away. The street below was empty. The fog rolled in from the river. It swallowed the lamps. It swallowed the world. She turned to the chair. It was the only thing in the room that mattered. Mahogany. Carved. Worn. The arms were smooth as...
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