The Pale Fracture
The grey wool of your coat, stitched with the heavy, dark thread of your own sin, hangs upon the hook by the door, a silent sentinel that has watched you enter and exit the same prison walls for thirty years, its fibers matted with the dust of a city that breathes only through the cracks in the stone, and you stand before it, your hands trembling not with cold but with the terrible, electric...
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