The Pale Tale
The fire did not start with a spark, but with a whisper of dry straw catching the heat of the hearth, a sudden, violent bloom of orange that swallowed the silence of the cottage whole. It was the kind of heat that pressed against the skin before the flames touched it, a physical weight that made the air taste of ash and old dust. Seven-year-old Thomas Whitmore stood in the center of the room,...
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