The Pale Door
The rain on the windowpane is a slow, deliberate erasure, smearing the neon glow of the city into a bruised and indistinct smear of violet and gray. You sit in the high-backed chair of your office, the leather creaking softly under the weight of your stillness, watching the water trace its erratic, inevitable paths down the glass. Outside, the city pulses with a life that feels distant, a...
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