The Pale Door
The ivy that grew upon the north face of the St. Jude’s chapel did not merely cling; it strangled, its thick, waxy leaves forming a living tapestry of emerald and bronze that seemed to breathe with a slow, vegetative pulse, absorbing the dampness of the fog that rolled in from the harbor every evening and exhaling it back as a cold, metallic mist that settled in the lungs of anyone who dared to...
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