The Pale Bridge
Marek dreamed of a bridge made of bone. It spanned a chasm so deep that the bottom was lost in white fog. The planks were ribs, curved and pale, slick with moisture. He crossed it barefoot. The cold bit into his soles. He did not look down. He could not. To look was to fall, and falling was a thing he had done once, in a city that no longer existed on maps. He woke in the small room above the...
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