The Pale Letter
The cart groaned under the weight of the silence. We had been traveling for three days. The rain had not stopped. It fell in a thin, persistent mist that soaked through the wool of my cloak and chilled the bones beneath. I held the reins with hands that trembled. Not from cold. From the thing that waited at the end of the road. My name is Elias. I am a sinner. Or perhaps I am a prisoner. The...
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