The Pale Tale
The rain hammers the slate roof of the old mill, a relentless, drumming rhythm that shakes the dust from the rafters and makes your teeth ache. You are here to fix the gear. You are the miller’s son, or rather, the man who thinks he is, standing in the dark water that has risen to your waist, cold and black, smelling of iron and rot. Your father is dead. He has been dead for three weeks, buried...
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