The Pale Altar
The rain hits the windowpanes of the farmhouse with a rhythmic, percussive violence that you have always found soothing, a white noise that drowns out the static of the past. You are sitting at the kitchen table, the wood worn smooth by decades of elbows and elbows of your predecessor, and you are holding a piece of paper. It is a single sheet, typed on a standard government form, the ink crisp...
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