The Pale Door
The rain had not stopped for three days. It drummed against the rotting shingles of the inn, a relentless, hollow rhythm that seemed to sync with the beating of your heart. You sat by the cold hearth, your boots off, your toes numb despite the fire you had coaxed from the dead wood. You were a man of few words, a traveler whose face bore the weathering of too many roads and too few beds. The...
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