The Pale Door
The river had swallowed the bridge, and with it, the only road out of the valley, leaving the mill town of Oakhaven suspended in a gray, breathing fog that tasted of wet iron and rotting leaves. I stood at the edge of the mill floor, my boots sinking into the silt that now coated the bottom of the workshop, watching the water lap against the wooden pillars that held up the roof. It was a slow,...
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