The Pale Bridge

added blog Literature

2026-08-20 11:51:04 -

The Pale Bridge

The smoke tasted of iron and wet wool. Margaret sat at the edge of the table. Her fingers were stained black with soot. She did not wash them. She watched the fire. The fire was a living thing. It breathed. It coughed. It consumed the dry kindling with a hungry, silent rapture. Around her, the room was a cathedral of dust and shadow. The walls were thick. They held the memory of a thousand...

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