The Pale Path
The ink on the page was not black. It was a bruised violet, the color of a hematoma under thin skin, and it seemed to pulse with a faint, internal heat. Elias sat at the edge of his bed in the rented room above the bakery in Harrowgate, staring at the sheet of paper. The air smelled of yeast and stale rain. Outside, the town was asleep, or pretending to be. The streetlamps cast pools of sickly...
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