The Pale Garden
The road to Harrowgate was not a road at all in the way that the cartographers of the old world had imagined it, but rather a scar of mud and iron that wound through the black pine forest, biting into the earth with a stubbornness that seemed to defy the encroaching rot of the autumn season, and I walked it with the weight of my own history pressing down upon my shoulders like a stone that had...
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