The Pale Path

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2026-08-20 15:03:24 -

The Pale Path

The steam from the locomotive did not smell of coal, as it should have, but of wet wool and old pennies, a scent that clung to the back of my throat and refused to be swallowed. We were moving north, into the fog that hung over the valley like a shroud, and I sat by the window, watching the trees blur into gray streaks that looked less like wood and more like the scratches of a thousand blind...

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