The Pale Door
The door is white. It has always been white. You stand before it, and the wood is soft under your fingers, worn smooth by a thousand years of touching. It is a pale thing, a ghost of a barrier. You are not alone. Thomas is beside you. His hand rests on the wood, mirroring yours. You do not speak. Words are heavy here. They weigh too much in this air. You are in a place that is not here. The...
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