The Pale Exile
The coffee in the tin cup had gone cold, leaving a brown scum that floated like a broken eye. I stared at it, waiting for the warmth to return, knowing it wouldn’t. Across the fire, Miller’s hands shook as he tried to light a cigarette. The wind in the pine forest was a living thing, a sharp, technical instrument scraping against the bark, stripping away the last of the heat from our bones....
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