The Pale Door
The iron gate of the city was not a barrier but a membrane, a thin, rusted skin stretched over the pulsing, blackened heart of the industrial district where the air tasted of sulfur and wet coal dust. I stood before it, my hands resting on the cold, pitted metal, feeling the vibration of the city’s heavy, rhythmic breathing beneath my fingertips, a tremor that traveled up my arms and settled in...
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