The Pale Door
You dream of the door. It stands alone in a field of white ash. No frame. No hinges. Just a slab of pale wood, smooth as bone. You touch it. The grain is cold. You know the weight of a rifle. You know the weight of a body. You do not know the weight of this door. It is heavy. It is light. It is both. You are the one who holds it. You have always held it. The King is dead. Or rather, the King is...
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